Sine sole sileo
by Chaed
Summary: preMansion. Deep below ground lies the cradle of Progenitor. On a mission to uncover its secrets Wesker and Birkin get trapped in Hell with all its demons... but no one leaves the nether world without paying for his sins first. And the price is high.
1. Chapter I

**sine sole sileo  
**without the sun I'm silent

**by Chaed  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Sadly.**

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Chapter I

His footsteps resounded in the empty corridor of the mansion. It was well past working hours and those that remained for the night had withdrawn to their residences or the subterranean laboratories. In the pompous hallway it was only him and the ornate decorations Ozwell Spencer liked to spend the company's money on.

He took a corner to the left, descended the creaking stairway that led down onto the ground floor and not for the first time wondered whether the old, moldy stench was there only for disguise or whether the mansion truly decomposed at such a fast rate.

As he knocked against the oak door leading into Spencer's office he freed his mind of all else. Then he stepped through and gave the individuals in the room an apologetic nod for his delay.

"Dr Wesker."

Spencer, slouched in his leather armchair, gave him a sly smirk and waved him over impatiently.

"Take a seat."

He did as he was told, but not before exchanging glances with the other two persons in the room. James Marcus gave him a stern expression in response, obviously displeased with his late arrival. Wesker was usually on time and after the meeting with Spencer, he was sure that he would have to explain his delay to the overseer of the Training Facility.

In the chair beside him William Birkin tapped his fingers against the armrest nervously. He had probably arrived sooner, earlier than the arranged time. Waiting for Wesker in the company of two of Umbrella's most influencing individuals had picked at his patience and nerves. Neither Marcus nor Spencer were amiable fellows and the simple need to call in a meeting without giving away the smallest hint of what it was about openly unnerved Birkin. It had the same impact on Wesker, only that the latter managed to hide his anticipation away.

"Now that we have found together," Spencer started, locking his eyes with each of them as he spoke. "Let me inform you why this meeting was called into place."

Beside him Birkin shifted in his seat. Wesker glanced at Marcus. Even if his mentor knew what this was about, it was impossible to judge it by his expression. Spencer could announce their promotion or have them here to sign their death warrants. Marcus wouldn't give away a single detail, not even when they had asked him earlier in the day. 'Concentrate on what you are doing now, not on what you'll do later' had been all he would lay open.

"Can either of you tell me what significance Africa has for the Umbrella Corporation?" Spencer asked.

Wesker raised a brow, but kept silent. Birkin voiced his dubious thoughts seconds later.

"Progenitor originates from there."

"Very good, doctor," Spencer said and Marcus gave an approving nod before he turned to Wesker.

"Can you name some characteristics of the virus, Dr Wesker?"

"A retrovirus that transcribes its genetics into the host DNA, thus multiplying itself throughout the subject. Infection causes uncontrolled molecular changes. In subjects low down the evolutionary ladder this triggers cell growth and mutagenic remodeling. Experimentation on human and human-like hosts has so far led to cellular decomposition of a speed that takes further research back on a theoretical level."

"Precisely. So far, the human genome did not successfully bond with the agent, albeit repetitive tries," Marcus added, seemingly satisfied with Wesker's short recap.

"Yet," Spencer said and all eyes turned to him.

"Sir?" Birkin furrowed a brow and tapped his finger against the armrest again. "We achieved successful bonding by combining Progenitor with Ebola. T, despite in its early stages, is applicable to humans."

"Did you even listen to what Dr Marcus said, Dr Birkin?" Spencer questioned and Birkin fell silent instantly. Ashamed, he let his head hang. Knowing better than to interfere in defense of his friend, Wesker kept his mouth closed. So far, he hadn't figured out what Spencer was playing at. A sideways glance to Marcus revealed as much as ever. Nothing.

"Recite what Dr Marcus said," Spencer ordered.

Birkin looked up again. "Sir, he said that Progenitor does not bond with the human genome."

"That's correct, Dr Birkin. We are not talking about T, but about Progenitor here."

Marcus cleared his throat when the Umbrella head had finished, easing the growing tension in the room some.

"To get down to the point, gentlemen, we speculate that such views on the viral agent are wrong."

"Sir?" It was Wesker now, his voice not holding back his curiosity.

"Progenitor _does_ merge."

"How?" Birkin questioned, eyes wide. "Who has… when did it happen?"

At this point Spencer cracked a smirk and Wesker was sure, right then and there, that there was more to his delightment than only the scientific breakthrough.

"Your plane leaves in five hours," Marcus calmly informed them and the new turn of events made Wesker refocus his attention from one man to the other. "Mr Spencer and I want two of our best researchers deployed to investigate the phenomena. I would go personally, but you will understand that an impairment in T research at this point is unthinkable."

"Our plane?" Wesker echoed.

"You will leave for Africa, both of you. Once you arrive you will be transported to the local facility, where you are to meet the chief researcher Brandon Bailey. He will entrust you with further directions."

"We expect the first reports within a week of your stay, doctors," Spencer called to attention.

A short silence sunk in and Wesker urged his mind to gather all the information on Progenitor it possessed. All of this sounded as if taken out of a daydream. If it turned out to be true… all research on the Mother virus would have to be rewritten. He glanced over to Birkin, but the other man didn't catch his gaze. If this was true then they could write scientific history over again. But as it was with work of this kind the image of a royal castle usually crumbled to a stray grain of salt.

"What about T?" The question had to come up. If they were gone, who would take care of _their_ research? If the rumors on Progenitor turned out to be nothing more than fantasies they would use precious time with their current project – one that had very realistic prospects.

"Dr Marcus will continue work on the T virus," Spencer explained. "He shall keep you updated in the case of developments, as will you pass on every information on Progenitor."

Wesker wanted to ask why they couldn't stay and Marcus go in their stead, but as he eyed the stern professor the question dissolved in the back of his mind again. If this was the decision, there was no bartering around.

"How long will we stay?"

"As long as is necessary."

So much to that. The conversation had just reached its end. Tickling out more details of either of the men would be an effort not worth to take. Everything would unfold sooner or later. Wesker took another glance at Birkin and this time their eyes met. A barely visible nod and they both turned to their superiors.

"We should pack then, sirs." Wesker said.

Spencer nodded curtly. "You are dismissed. Be at the front entrance in three and a half hours. All further briefing will be made there. Good evening."

They both bowed out and once Birkin had slipped the heavy oak doors closed behind them, they sighed; partly in relief of having come through the meeting, partly out of tenseness for what was yet to come.

Birkin spoke first. His voice rang off the walls as they walked through the long corridor winding through the mansion.

"Where were you? They were close to ripping me apart, like some rabid half-starved-to-death wolves."

"If I told you I was on a date you wouldn't believe me anyway, would you?" Wesker suggested, one eyebrow raised.

It was responded to with a scowl from his colleague. "Please, your jokes are miserable, Albert. I dearly hope your absence was productive to the project."

"Not that that is going to help us a lot now. Pack mosquito spray and freshen up your vaccinations. The last thing we need is dealing with the local illnesses."

Birkin grimaced at the thought. "We're not going into the jungle." He seemed to consider this for a moment, then added, "Although we should pack some Progenitor antidote, just in case."

"Marcus' leeches are snappy enough. If the boys down in Africa found a human-pathogen strain the first sensible thing they should do is create the matching antidote before injecting the agent into people."

"Better safe than sorry," Birkin reasoned. "In the main hall in three hours?"

Wesker looked at his watch and nodded tentatively. "I'll jet. Thank god there are no speed controls on this way."

"I still don't understand why you insist living in Raccoon when they offer you the same conditions here. It's two hours of road you could avoid. Daily."

"Two hours," Wesker shrugged. "I'm willing to spend that in exchange of not having BOWs breathing down my neck when I try to sleep."

"Oh please," Birkin clicked his tongue. "What's the probability of an outbreak while you sleep? If it happens while you work you're stuck with it anyway. And don't even think of giving me that talk of trying to keep up a normal social life."

"I won't." Wesker's lips curled into a smirk. "I know you hate it when others succeed where you fail, William. I'll spare you that one."

The comment didn't go unheard. Birkin pursed his lips, but when the fitting retort didn't come, Wesker said:

"Three hours. Don't make me wait."

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**Here we are again, better late than never. This story obviously takes place pre-mansion and in case you wonder, it also takes place pre-Lisa. Neither Birkin nor Wesker know of her existance yet.**

**That said, I hope you enjoyed and check back for the next chapter in a week!**

**Cheers,  
Chaed**


	2. Chapter II

Chapter II

The plane buzzed lazily and Birkin sighed, averting his eyes from the small window. They still had two hours to go and he guessed they would pass in silence. Whatever subjects of conversation there had been, they'd taken all of them through in the past ten hours.

Wesker was dozing in his seat on the other side. Apart from the pilots, the two of them were the only ones on board. That left him with nothing to do. The reports and instructions they had received from Marcus before their departure were talked through double and triple and Birkin knew them by heart.

There weren't many details on this new strain, only that it first emerged during one of the mining trips. The African branch wanted to expand and since its existence was secret, any enlargements had to be done underground.

The infected man had only shown signs of the virus after two days. The symptoms began as those of a normal flu. Fever, weariness, muscles aches. But they soon extended to more. Hallucinations, aggression, loss of coherent mind. That was when the Umbrella scientists had been called in. The man never saw his family again, nor did he survive the following treatment, but obtained from his blood samples one thing was sure. Progenitor had sought a human host.

Further tests were conducted with the strain attained from the man and sixty percent turned out positive. That was when Spencer had been informed and here they were now, not twenty hours later heading to investigate whether the new strain was worth something or a one in a million fluke.

Birkin busied himself with possible theories for the next while and when Wesker woke an hour later and complained of unwelcome neck stiffness, the plane was slowly setting for landing.

In Africa, it was early morning and the sun poked out behind an orange horizon, as if taken out of a Hollywood movie.

The plane landed rather rough for Birkin's taste, but he kept himself from giving off any comments as the pilots wished them a nice stay and they stepped out into an asphyxiating heat.

"Quite a difference to Raccoon," Wesker observed as they descended the metal ladder. And it was. As much as Raccoon City was enclosed by its wooden cage and the Arklay Mountains, this place looked like someone had dumped a huge bowl of dust over the landscape. Vegetation was scarce and the sun burned even in this early hour.

"As long as they have air conditioning in the labs I won't complain."

They had landed on what looked like a private airport. Two other planes were parked some way ahead and a single dismal concrete building stood at the end of the asphalt way. There wasn't a sign of human life around, and certainly none of their employing company.

That was until they started to hear the clattering of an engine and a not so safe looking and quite rusty car navigated into their direction from behind the sole building. It stopped in front of them and Birkin realized that the vehicle was in even worse shape than he had thought before.

The driver's door was pushed open and a native African stepped out, putting sunglasses on his eyes and a cigar in his mouth. He wore a short trousers and a plain shirt that was unbuttoned at the top. To Birkin neither he or his car looked like the normal Umbrella escort, but as the man approached them Birkin had to realize that this was, in fact, their welcome.

"Dr Birkin, Dr Wesker?" His accent was heavy and the cigar bobbed in his mouth as he spoke.

"You are our contact?" Wesker asked, and if he had the same doubts as Birkin then he made sure to hide them behind his own sunglasses.

"Yes," the man confirmed and held out a hand. Neither Birkin or Wesker returned the handshake. After retracing his arm again, the man pointed to himself with one long, bony finger, then to the car. "My name is Adem Zima. I am your driver. I drive you to Dr Bailey."

Brandon Bailey was the head researcher in charge of the African Umbrella branch and supposedly one of Marcus' former pupils. The two were still in good contact, which made it even more important that he and Wesker exceeded all expectations.

"Follow me," Zima told them in accentuated english and walked back to the car. They followed him with a shrug, dropping their luggage in the back of the jeep. Wesker sat down in the passenger's seat and Birkin climbed into the back, not quite able to hide his disgust at the state the car was in.

Zima seemed to notice this and waved with his hand. "No worries, doctor. I clean the car tomorrow, no problem. Kids played in it."

Birkin only nodded, careful to touch as little of the car as possible. He didn't know and didn't want to meet Zima's family, but to him it seemed that not kids, but pigs had roamed the car. The back seat was stained with God knew what, cigar stubs and empty bottles decorated the floor. The smell also hinted more into the direction of pigs, rather than kids.

As if reading his mind, Wesker opened the window moments later and Zima started the engine that audibly croaked in protest.

He doubted it would make any sense to ask the driver if he knew anything about the Progenitor infection. By the looks of it, the man didn't even knew what branch Umbrella worked in, be it the official or the secret one. It was probably just some guy from a nearby village, hired to get them from A to B. This surprised Birkin. It wasn't the first time he visited other facilities. Usually he was awaited by men in black suits and headsets, who could look as impassive and secretive as Wesker sometimes seemed with his sunglasses.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do, huh?

He shrugged, not further minding their rather uncommon reception.

"So, you from America?" Zima asked, glancing first at Wesker, then through the rearview mirror at Birkin.

Wesker answered with a dull "Yes." If that wasn't clear enough to signal that he was uninterested in continuing the conversation, Birkin didn't know what was.

Zima was either one of the persistent kind or he hadn't caught Wesker's hint. Rather cheerfully he turned his head away from the road and to his passenger, chewing on the cigar. The fume came into the back part and Birkin coughed as it infiltrated his lungs.

Immediately, their guide turned to him and Birkin wanted to point out that nobody was looking at the road.

"You all fine, doctor?" Zima asked, a hint of played worry in his tone. He grinned. "We got strong stuff here. Wanna try?"

He held out the half burnt cigar and Birkin hastily shook his head. "Thank you for your offer," he replied. "But I'm non smoker."

Zima shrugged his shoulders, gave the road a sideways glance, then held the cancer stick to Wesker.

Who, Birkin could barely believe it, actually took it. He couldn't see his friend's expression from the back and although he knew that Wesker was an occasional smoker, this really wasn't his style.

In the next moment, his colleague surprised him again. Instead of sticking the cigar in his mouth Wesker threw it out of the open window with not so much as a comment.

Both Zima and him stared for a few seconds, then Wesker explained himself with a simple "Smoking kills."

"You're the doctor," Zima said, his voice having lost a bit of its cheerfulness.

The next while they drove in silence, the only sound the very unhealthy coughing of the engine. Birkin observed the surroundings they passed. Mostly earth, red earth with a few green splotches here and there. The jeep left a cloud of dust in its wake and Birkin didn't envy the two or three people walking on the side of the road they passed.

Zima honked at a regular basis whenever they encountered other cars or bikes, stretching an arm out of the window to greet what must be relatives or friends.

Half an hour later, Birkin asked the inevitable question.

"How long do we need until we arrive at Dr Bailey's?"

Zima hesitated and in the rearview mirror he looked as if he weighed up what he should tell them next.

"Depends on traffic," he settled for in the end and Birkin almost rolled his eyes. He had counted eight cars in the duration of an hour. Traffic could hardly play a role here.

"Approximately?" he pressed.

"Twenty minutes," Zima announced. "Approximately."

Twenty minutes later they still sat in the car, unmoving. A herd of goats had strayed on the street and was effectively blocking it. The shepherd was doing his best to collect the runaways, but it was apparently harder than it looked.

Zima honked for good measure, scaring two exemplars away, then pointed ahead on the road and half turned on his seat to Birkin.

"Traffic."

Birkin sighed and propped an arm against the window. It took five more minutes and they were well on their way again. Wesker hadn't said a word ever since the cigar incident and Zima had increasingly fallen silent, not that any of the two men mourned very much about it.

A town drew up ahead and Zima slowed down the jeep. Upon closer inspection, town was an inadequate word. Most of the houses were build from cardboard or the like and apart from its size, it didn't differentiate much from the other locations they had passed. The car drew past what looked like a butchery and Birkin grimaced at the sight of meat hanging in the hot air.

Wesker seemed to have his own doubts about it. "Dr Bailey is here?"

Zima nodded, adjusting his sunglasses. "He comes here sometimes. Many men work for him. In the mines, sometimes somewhere else. He is American. He pays good."

"Is he here now?"

"Yes. I bring you to him, he waits for you."

He honked at two passing women who were balancing big pitchers on their heads, presumably with water as some of the liquid spilled to the ground. They cursed Zima, but the man didn't seem to care.

He navigated the car deeper into the village and suddenly pointed to one of the buildings on the left. It was a house, nothing out of the ordinary setting, but Zima explained proudly, "This is my home. After you talk to Dr Bailey, you can visit me. My wife cooks for you."

Birkin innerly groaned at the offer and was sure that Bailey would somehow talk them out of it. The last thing he wanted was food intoxication. Wesker didn't reply to the offer, so Birkin kept silent too. Perhaps Zima would simply forget about it.

A few minutes later the car drew to the side of the road and Zima gestured for them to get out. He rounded the car and lit another cigar, briefly taking it out of his mouth to spread his arms in a showing gesture, grinning.

"Welcome to Kijuju."

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**Welcome to Kijuju, indeed! Thank you very much for the reviews so far, I hope the story managed to spark some interest on your side. One more introducing chapter will follow, then you are invited to take the elevator to the ground level, HORROR 1. We shall explore deeper levels as the story progresses.**

**That said, I'll see you next week and thank you for reading!**

**Chaed**


	3. Chapter III

Chapter III

Kijuju didn't offer much in terms of entertainment, so Wesker didn't have high expectations for the pub they entered, wondering what type of person this Bailey was and why in God's name he had chosen this place to meet up with them and not directly the facility. Marcus had spoken quite highly of the man, but from what he had seen so far, Wesker had a fair share of doubts. By the look on Birkin's face, his friend had to see the situation similarly.

Ahead of them Zima stepped through the doorway of a very worn down looking bar, greeting a few of the guests in rapid Swahili. A quick sweep of the room brought in disappointing results. Wesker had never seen Bailey or even a picture of him, but none of the men present looked like they could even spell _biochemistry_ and he gave Birkin a curious glance. It was returned with an unnerved shrug.

He had never thought Spencer to possess a sense of humor, but the only logical explanation for all of this had to be a very bad joke. Either that, or Spencer had decided Kijuju would be an excellent place to get rid of them both. In which case the pub was the wrong place to go, Wesker thought ironically. Hadn't he seen a butchery earlier?

Birkin came up beside him.

"What the hell's going on here?" he asked in a low tone and it was then that Wesker realized how the majority of the guests had fixed their attention on the newcomers. Zima was in the middle of a conversation with another man, unaware of the lingering glances.

He pursed his lips, his mouth only a thin line. Walking up to their so-called guide, Wesker patted him on the shoulder rather roughly.

"If this is a joke…"

"No! No, doctor, no!" Zima immediately assured and pointed to a single door leading either out of the building or into another room behind the bar. "Come, come."

Wesker looked over his shoulder and motioned Birkin to follow. The door didn't lead into another room. It led into the backyard and they evaded two chickens as they crossed it.

As soon as he got home, he'd have a word with Spencer…

Zima took them through two more narrow paths, then they reached their destination. And that was more to Wesker's liking. They had emerged on a bigger street and it was almost completely blocked by a huge military vehicle. Opposed to Zima's car this one didn't show a speck of rust. As soon as they came into view the driver's door pushed open and a man in his forties stepped out, so white that it was hard to believe that he lived in Africa. Optimally, it was someone who hid from the sun in a laboratory. Wesker's mood didn't brighten up, but it definitely stabilized from further decreasing.

The man had brown hair and a pair of glasses. His attire was more like it, too. Trousers, a blue shirt with matching tie and shoes. This was their man.

A hand extended in greeting. "Dr Wesker, Dr Birkin, my sincere apologies." He exchanged a few words with Zima, then the African left.

"Please, if you would follow me. Your luggage will be brought to your quarters later. Accept my apologies for the inconvenience again."

Birkin gave an unsure laugh. "I take it you are our real contact then?"

"That I am. My name is Brandon Bailey and I'm the head researcher of the African Umbrella Branch. You have to excuse that I didn't wait for you at the airport personally. We have a few, let's say, misconceptions with other organizations, who have so generously bribed the local government into arresting any of my staff should the opportunity present itself. I wanted to avoid ending up in jail on my way to the airport."

Wesker raised an eyebrow. "Does Mr Spencer know of this?"

Bailey frowned, then gestured to the car. "It's a minor inconvenience he shouldn't be bothered with. Please, follow me."

They climbed into the car in the same constellation as before, Wesker taking the front and Birkin the back, with the slight difference that the state of this vehicle couldn't be compared with the other. Not five minutes later, they left Kijuju behind them in a cloud of dust.

"This village is small enough that the government doesn't have it observed and its inhabitants are more than happy with the salary Umbrella gives them instead of staying true to their nation and backstab us."

"How far is the facility from here?" Birkin asked from behind, irritation audible in his voice. "And do debrief us about the situation, would you? That guy from before might have been talkative, but hardly in a profitable way."

Wesker had to hide a smirk. His friend had obviously reached the verge of what he could endure in form of 'inconveniences'. With every second they wasted here, the time also flew by in America and T wouldn't wait for them. Approving or disapproving this project had to go quickly. It might be a breakthrough in the Progenitor research if it was applicable to human hosts, but T was far more developed and showed a lot of unused potential. Potential they could use to write history.

"We will reach the facility in twenty minutes," Bailey answered with a slight undertone. "I understand your displeasure for the necessary measures, but I ask you for a bit more patience. It is best if you see the developments for yourself."

"What part of the process cannot be put into words, Dr Bailey?" Wesker questioned curiously. The words didn't sit well with the researcher, the hint of mockery not having gone unnoticed. Who could blame them? They'd sat a day in a plane and discovered a new definition for 'traffic'. Patience had been thrown out of the window some time ago. It wasn't the best way to make friends with Bailey, that much he admitted, but they could start to kiss ass tomorrow morning after having an idea of what this was all about and a decent sleep in a hopefully decent bed.

At one point Bailey pulled off of the main road and they navigated through what seemed outright wilderness. A basic orientation point were the mountains ahead, but unless Umbrella had figured out how to turn their facilities invisible Wesker wondered whether Bailey had the same understanding of twenty minutes as Zima.

Truly, it took a little longer until they arrived. And the location of the facility surprised even Wesker himself. A little distance from the foot of the mountain, surrounded by red earth and dust was a single building made of plain steel plates. Bailey drove the jeep inside and they were briefly halted by a guard. Upon showing his ID, they were permitted to go on. Similar to a garage a winding path led down. Apart from the short distance that was illuminated by the headlights, they were surrounded by complete darkness.

"It's located completely underground?"

Bailey nodded. "At the foot of the mountain. Independent from the outer world and only a step away from Progenitor's cradle."

Suddenly, their environment changed from pitch black to the green light of neon lamps and up ahead a heavy gate opened, letting them in. Bailey parked the car in what seemed to be an underground garage and after another ID check, they boarded an elevator. It let them out again on level U2.

"These are the dormitories," Bailey explained. "All of the researchers employed also live here, similarly, I believe, as you handle it in America."

They walked down the corridor until Bailey stopped and showed them two their rooms.

"Your luggage should be waiting for you already, as does a warm meal. Refresh yourselves and I will have someone pick you up within the hour to give you a small tour around the facility."

Pressing the respective keys into their hands he bowed out, leaving the two of them alone. After he disappeared behind a corner, Wesker exchanged a look with Birkin. He received a silent approval in response, then Birkin sighed.

"I can't wait to be back in America."

Unlocking the door to his room, Wesker nodded. "We'll work fast."

With that he stepped through the doorway and closed it behind him, taking in his surroundings. It was definitely lacking the pomposity of the Spencer Mansion or even that of the Training Facility, but everything was present, in a simple way. A bathroom with toilet, shower and sink and a separate room for bed and nightstand, a cabinet, a table and two chairs. There were no windows, dipping everything in sterile, artificial light.

As promised, his suitcase waited for him beside the bed and Wesker wondered how it had arrived faster than him. There was also a bowl with soup and bread on the table, definitely smelling better than the airplane food he had refused to touch.

After exploring the room some more, Wesker sat down at the table, glancing at his watch. There was more than enough time and after he had eaten he might pay William a visit. As if on cue, someone knocked at the door.

He went to answer it, almost jumping out of the way as his colleague let himself in, bowl of soup and spoon in hand and navigating towards the table.

"I don't know what to think about this," he informed Wesker as he sat down and began to eat. "Governments and adverse organizations, where are we? And why doesn't Spencer know about it?"

Wesker returned to his seat, shrugging. "Uncovering secret conspiracies isn't why we're here, William. I wouldn't stew over it too much. If their research is as advanced as their airport shuttles, we won't stay for long anyway."

"I can't believe this is one of Dr Marcus' former pupils."

"You don't like Dr Bailey?"

Birkin frowned. "Don't tell me you do. Something's off about that man. I don't see how the facility flourishes under him. He's chaotic at best and if he tells me one more time that I have to be patient to see something for myself, I'm calling Spencer."

"You know you won't do that. I'd wait with further opinion making until we did the tour and see what this is all about." A grin formed on his lips. "Patience is a virtue, William."

His friend only rolled his eyes at that. "I'm expecting a breakthrough that blows me off my feet. At the very least."

Not thirty minutes later their tour guide knocked against the door and introduced himself as some research assistant Wesker didn't bother remembering the name of.

They were shown around the facility at a quick pace. It wasn't as big as the American ones he was used to, and research was solely focused on Progenitor.

"Is it true that the plants cannot be regrown outside their natural habitat?" Birkin asked as they passed one of the many labs.

Their guide nodded. "Years ago Dr Marcus tried to find a way to take the plants back to America. All attempts failed. So far, we haven't even be able to grow the plants within the laboratories themselves. They will only flourish where we originally found them in the caverns beneath the facility. Since it wasn't possible to extract them and fix them somewhere else, we have created an own system for watering in order to cultivate them more rapidly."

"Yet still we've been able to work with Progenitor in America," Wesker objected. "And we managed to synthesize it there without any flowers."

The man smiled almost knowingly. "Yes, that is true."

"How is it possible then? Your theory would contradict it."

"The original strain and plant cannot be moved from their location here in Africa. Dr Marcus did, however, manage to circumvent this difficulty. You, and the rest of the world, are working on a mutant-strain of Progenitor."

"A mutant strain?" Birkin echoed. "That can't be true."

"Why else would this facility still stand if the mother virus in its original state was available to everyone?"

"We have never been told about this," Wesker pointed out. "What is so special about this strain that it requires an entire facility for itself?"

Again, the man smiled and it was starting to annoy Wesker. Perhaps not so much the antic in itself, but definitely the lack of information and knowledge he and Birkin had arrived with here.

"Why, it's the reason Mr Spencer likely sent you here for. In our struggles to expand the facility, we have stumbled across another spot where Sonnentreppe grows. These plants, although identical with their brethren, show another variant of the virus, a mutation, if you so want it."

"The mutagen able to infect human hosts."

"That is correct, Dr Birkin," the man agreed with a nod and led them down another corridor. They had passed the lab sections a few minutes ago and Wesker wondered where they were headed now. Opposed to his colleague's initial dislike for the project, Wesker did feel that strange lull of curiosity surface within him.

"You said Sonnentreppe," he stated then. As far as he knew it was the name given to the plant that produced Progenitor, but Marcus had never bothered to explain how it had come to the term.

"Sonnentreppe is the name attributed to the plant by its original discoverer. In the 1800's the European archeologist Henry Travis came upon this vegetation during his expeditions throughout Africa. He wrote an impressive 72-volume set entitled Surveys of Natural History. Only few copies were ever published. In the 1960s Mr Spencer himself found an interesting chapter within one of the books. It deals with the aboriginal tribe of Ndipaya. In their folklore they describe a plant that, if consumed and the person worthy enough, will give god-like powers and strength."

"The Progenitor Plant," Birkin reasoned.

"Indeed. Together with James Marcus and Edward Ashford the three of them succeeded in creating the base for all of today's bioweapons research: the mother virus."

They came to a stop before a heavy looking metal door. From the other side low buzzing could be heard, and if it was loud enough to penetrate the thick concrete walls Wesker guessed that some heavy apparatus was waiting for them behind the gate.

Their guide slipped an ID card through a reader located beside the door. The little red light flashed green and greeted them with a beep.

When the door opened, Wesker found himself unconsciously holding his breath. And rightfully so. With the door not only came the end of a corridor, but of the entire facility itself.

Instead of stretching into another hallway or room, they were granted the view into a cavern as large as a warehouse. Stalactites hung from the ceiling like brute stone cones. The walls were roughly shaped, which made it likely that the cavern was of natural make and not man-shaped.

Although there was heavy equipment and many devices located throughout the cave, there was no artificial light. It made it all the more impressive. The only source of light was a ray let in through a small opening at the top. It illuminated only the middle.

On a raised surface confined by an ornamental stone hedge was an underground garden, the lively colors contrasting hard against the different hues of grey and black. Dozens of flowers grew toward the sun in a place hidden by nature against the destructive hands of human kind.

"Henry Travis called the mysterious flowers Sonnentreppe," their guide explained, his voice almost going lost in the great hall. "Because they struggle to grow, unhampered by their stony cage, in an eternal attempt to reach the surface."

"Deep down below the earth they are the Stairway to the Sun."

* * *

**First of all, a huge THANK YOU to the people who took the time to review this story. You're the ones who keep it going, the fire in the fireplace, so to say.**

**When reading through the scientific part, bear in mind that neither Wesker nor Birkin know of Lisa yet. The strain of Progenitor they have worked with so far managed to infect only animals, which is why the stronger T was created, which for the moment is the only pathogen applicable to humans. At least, to Wesker and Birkin's knowledge. If you still have any questions about Progenitor, I'm sure Dr Bailey would be honored to answer them in the next chapter.**

**Apart from that, we're done with the introductory part. Next week we're going down to level HORROR1.**

**Hope to see you on the ride,  
Chaed**


	4. Chapter IV

Chapter IV

The Progenitor growth chamber had been impressive, but nothing to blow Birkin off his feet as he had wanted. They'd called it a day after several more hours of briefing and with Wesker sleeping off the jet-lag Birkin was sitting in the bed of his room, one hand wrapped around a hot cup of coffee and the other skimming through a stack of research reports.

Exposure to the mutated strain had similar effects as the original mother virus. Influenza-like signs, fever, hallucinations until the temperature grew out of control and started to affect the brain. Fueled by pain and delusion the victim would develop bursts of rage of such intensity that they had to be restrained. Until now only four human individuals had been exposed to the mutant, but one progress was visible every time.

While the original Sonnentreppe required sunlight to grow, the mutant plants had been found during one of the excavations in a decrepit tunnel that must have belonged to the local tribe years ago. No ray of light had ever seen that place.

Apparently the incubation process did not correlate with time, but rather with the location the infected were in. If they stayed underground for a longer time they showed less symptoms than victims returning to the surface sooner. The researchers assumed a possible connection between the onset of illness and sunlight, although no evidence spoke for or against it yet.

The infection itself was not airborne. It transferred only through blood, bodily fluids or direct ingestion with the later being something Birkin had only read about in the folklore reports of the tribe that had initially led to the discovery of Progenitor.

He yawned despite the coffee in his hand and rubbed at his eyes once more in an attempt to keep them open. He hadn't thought that the time difference between the US and Africa would give him any problems, but ten minutes later Birkin decided to follow the example of his friend in the room next door and give his body some hours to prepare for tomorrow.

Tomorrow, when Bailey would introduce them to the research on the mutant and they would visit the underground tunnel it had originally been found in.

--

The cave walls were layered in a crust of thick dirt and Birkin realized that said dirt had a fondness for clinging to his hand after accidentally brushing against the cold stone. In the process of trying to get rid of it he left a dark brown streak on his labcoat too and probably gave the people around him the impression he'd never been in a place like this before. Which, coincidentally, was true. And if it hadn't been for Wesker's insisting he wouldn't even be here.

For Birkin the sterile labs with their reports, test tubes and subjects were enough information to begin their work, but Wesker thought it necessary to see the place of origin of the mutant strain and observe how samples were won. As with the original virus, it could not be regrown or synthetically reproduced. Fresh samples had to be gathered whenever the old ones became useless.

They walked for another while through the crude pathway the workers had drilled into the stone and it soon became apparent that what once had been intended to become an expansion of the facility had quickly been restructured into a makeshift field lab.

Big lamps were installed on the ceiling, thick cables snaking along the walls. A few tables had been set up in the small cavern they stepped into minutes later. It was crowded with people, most of them workers, some research staff.

This cove in the cave system was by far not so big as the underground garden they had been shown the day before and it didn't show any signs of having been discovered before the incident a week ago. Not more than a dozen plants grew in a far off corner and in distinction from their brethren, these weren't sunclimbers, as they were nicknamed by some of the employees. No ray of light bore through the thick rock walls surrounding the flowers and Birkin noticed curiously how the plants were shielded from the neon lights installed in the rest of the cavity.

He voiced this observation to Smidt, their guide from yesterday.

"They're kept away from the light for a reason," Smidt explained. "You've read the reports on the incident with one of the workers, the symptoms only setting in after a certain period of time. It is only a speculation so far, but some of the older scientists say its not the period of time that's decisive, but the sunlight. The infected man began to develop signs only after he left his shift where contact with the plant happened and he returned to the surface a day later."

"That's why you don't use hazmat-suits or masks," Wesker threw in.

Smidt nodded. "The agent isn't airborne, it transmits only through direct contact. Those who work to take samples are accordingly equipped to do so."

"But how do they grow without sunlight?" Birkin wanted to know.

"They don't. At least they don't re-grow, as far as we could determine and if they do, they do it at a speed that is insufficient to us."

"Why do you keep cutting them, then? You have a little over ten flowers that might hold the key which the original strain lost during evolution. They should be handled with extreme care."

In the artificial light Smidt's smirk looked charmless. "We have a dozen flowers _here_. More have been found yesterday and this night. The search proceeds at an incredible pace. Two other places have been identified to carry the same flowers with the same strain of Progenitor and they shouldn't be the last. Even though this species doesn't seem to grow in such big groups as the sunclimbers, we've found clusters of three and five, one of eight flowers."

"Can we see them?" Wesker requested and Birkin had to suppress a groan. Why did they have to waste their time in the caves, when they could come up with results much faster in the labs?

Smidt agreed and asked them to follow him. They left the small cavern and Birkin sent his colleague a disapproving glare, wondering if it even reached Wesker through those stupid sunglasses. Why he had to wear them when you could barely see a hand in front of your eyes was a mystery to Birkin, but he was in no mood to poke his friend about it.

They passed through another tunnel containing the group of three flowers, swerved to the right to view the five and once Birkin had lost the last of his orientation they reached the eight. Wesker displayed mediocre interest in all of them and Smidt gave them a tidbit of useless information here and there.

While they were discussing the group of eight, one of the workers stepped up to their guide, quite out of breath and informing Smidt of something in rapid Swahili. Whatever the talk dealt with, it garnered Smidt's attention and thus also Wesker's and marginally Birkin's.

Once the man was done talking, their guide translated. "The workers just found another accumulation of plants, six in number. They're located in a new branch of the tunnel system and the passageway seems to be manmade, but it is assured to me that its not part of the old mining area. If you are willing to, we can see it and then return to the facility."

Birkin had already opened his mouth to say that it wasn't necessary the effort, but Wesker willingly fell into step behind the other man and Birkin had a flash of thought including himself, a knife and Wesker's throat.

The new discovery might add to the scientific breakthrough, but it made Birkin giddy. The new tunnel that had been found (it had apparently been filled up with stones, most likely remains of some geographical shift ages ago, tremors or other natural forces) was only still standing because God wanted it to. Three workers had already begun placing wooden bars and metal stakes to support the old construction. Birkin didn't even dare place a finger on the walls. The probability of the corridor collapsing on him was just a bit too high.

He only reluctantly followed Wesker and Smidt to what seemed to be a fork in the road. From three options they took the right one, which at this point was the only walkable. The left one was partly collapsed and the middle one looked as if it could join the same fate any moment.

The six plants Smidt promised them waited after another corner and once Wesker seemed satisfied with observing, they eventually set back. In Birkin's opinion, they could have done this a lot sooner, too.

And if they had only asked his opinion before everything went to the deepest pit in hell, they might have been able to avoid getting a closer look at the decorations in that dreadful place.

Before they even reached the fork again, hell came one level closer. There were agitated yells, a scream and then a tremendous noise that sounded to Birkin just like a stone tunnel collapsing. Both Wesker and Smidt broke into a run ahead of him and he was right on their heels.

They passed the fork in a blur of flashlights and came to an abrupt stop as suddenly the way ahead of them ended just as abruptly. Two workers were trying to free one of their companions from under the weight of a chunk of fallen ceiling, while three others were already trying to dig a way back to the other side.

Smidt immediately barked commands and Birkin exchanged one worried look with Wesker, who was inspecting the ceiling warily.

"This doesn't look as if it's going to hold out a lot more…"

Before Birkin could agree, Smidt's voice interrupted in strained English.

"Doctors, quick!"

The two workers had managed to free their friend from under the wreck and were pulling him into safe distance. One of them cried some words to Smidt, who translated.

"He needs medical attention!"

Birkin knelt by the injured man's side the next instant and felt for a pulse, surveying the damage the collapse had done. Open fractures, certain internal bleedings, and judging by the nosebleed and the crimson flowing out of the man's ears, also cerebral damage. Neither he or Wesker were doctors in that sense and he doubted even the best surgeons could do much about this. Not without even as much as a pulse. Wesker put his thoughts into words.

"He doesn't need medical attention anymore," and after a horrified expression set on the other workers' faces he added, "My condolences. But there is nothing we can do."

Smidt translated this and sent the workers off to help the others, who were having visible trouble in clearing the path again.

"Some of the rocks are too big," Smidt explained. " The way is blocked for two or three meters and we have no equipment to undo the obstacles. All we can do is wait for the other side to clear the barricade."

Only, as it became apparent moments later, they could _not_ wait. One of the workers managed to yell a warning before more of the ceiling caved in. Birkin suddenly found himself being pushed deeper into tunnel, the men fleeing from the breach in panic.

"Go!" he heard Wesker say at one point, before more of the ceiling fell and his friend's voice was lost in the turmoil.

The last thing he knew was someone pulling at the collar of his shirt, a rock occupying the space he'd been in a second before and the flashlights going out.

Then everything went to hell. And despite stories and tales he'd repeatedly heard and read about, hell turned out to be a damn cold place.

* * *

**My apologies for the somewhat late update. I wanted to have another chapter written before I updated this one and it turned out to be harder to write than I thought. Speaking of which, starting next chapter I will change the rating of this story to M, so be sure to adjust your settings.**

**I want to thank all those who reviewed the story so far, again. I know I'm repeating myself, but I want you guys to know how much your feedback means to me. So thank you A LOT.**


	5. Chapter V

**Story's rated M for violence and gore from here on, don't say I didn't warn you.**

Chapter V

His lungs were filled with more dust than air, a state that Wesker tried hard to remedy. He coughed until his throat was as sore as the rocks around him, before he finally had the bailing idea of pulling his shirt over his nose and mouth as filter for the oxygen.

The fire in his lungs ceased soon after, but that was about everything that changed. Absolute darkness surrounded him and as much as he blinked, it wouldn't go away. Fumbling with his free hand he realized he was on all fours, the little stones under his palm scratching at his skin as he moved tentatively over the ground.

Apart from the sounds he was making there was a dead silence around him and Wesker didn't think that was a good sign. He managed to crawl three or four steps away from his initial location, the memory of how he ended up here suddenly returning in erratic flashes.

They'd been running because the tunnel was collapsing behind them and he yelled at William to pick up the pace. Then he got squeezed in between people, somehow managing to still move forward and then the lights turned off, brutally abrupt.

Wesker's eyes widened in the darkness and he turned back around, still keeping the cloth pressed to his nose, groping on the ground with his other hand. At least one other person had made it through with him, he was absolutely sure about that. He'd felt the body bounce against his before the ceiling collapsed completely wanted to convince himself that this other individual had survived. Especially if it was Birkin.

"Will…?" he asked the darkness cautiously, his voice cracking through the silence.

There was no response.

Wesker felt around the rocks some more and slowly realized that his head was throbbing. Perhaps the impact. It couldn't be more than a concussion, he still had all of his thoughts together and couldn't feel, smell, or taste any blood.

Suddenly his hand came across something warm and he instinctively pulled it back. Gasping through the shirt, he put the hand back and tried to form a mental image of what he was feeling. A hand, human hand and it was dry. That meant no blood.

"William?" he said again, but no answer came. The hand turned into an arm, shoulder, torso, head. The mouth was open, a faint carotid pulse palpable. Wesker trailed a finger over the person's face, concentrating on attributing features. Moments later he came to the conclusion that it couldn't be William, although he couldn't say whether that was a good or a bad thing.

The man had short hair, stubbles on his cheek and wore a plain t-shirt. None of these criterias matched William and Wesker tried to remember the workers that had been trapped with them, but came up with no image to assign to the body in front of him.

Grabbing the man's shoulder, Wesker shook gently at first, then, using more force. There was no reaction.

"Hey… hey! Wake up!"

The man would probably not understand him, but that was the smallest problem. Checking his breathing by placing his hand on the worker's chest Wesker found it very irregular, coming in short, forced bursts. Internal injuries? So far he'd touched nothing bloody.

Continuing his inspection, Wesker's hand moved further down and-

_FUCK_

-he retraced his arm with such force that he lost balance and fell on his back, wiping the offended limb against his trousers repeatedly, his legs moving self-willedly to push him away from the body.

_his goddamn legs_

He didn't notice that he was trembling, nausea creeping up in the back of his throat.

_his goddamn legs are missing_

And he'd grabbed right into it, into that bloody, pulpy mess of what was left of the man's lower body, had stuck his hand in the guy's fucking _guts_, had-

He took a deep intake of air, realizing only now that he'd held his breath until now. The protective cloth forgotten, dust entered his lungs again and he wheezed, one hand going up to his mouth quite automatically. And as he noticed that it was the _bloody_ hand, Wesker felt even sicker, the nausea closing in on him.

It took several minutes until he regained control again and managed to convince himself that he'd seen worse. And that was true, but this here was completely different. He couldn't see a thing and that was what made it the worst. He'd put his hands into what might have been guts, what might have been muscle or fat or organs and his imagination had done the rest, putting all of these together into one terrifying, grotesque image.

The smell of blood and innards was suddenly in the air, but Wesker couldn't say if it was for real or he just made it up. Taking a deep breath through his mouth he forced himself to approach the man again. He didn't touch below the chest this time. There was no need to make out the gravity of the injuries anyway. The heart had stopped.

And with it came the all too devastating realization that he now was alone in god knew what part of an ancient cave system that could collapse on him any moment.

Overcome by a sudden weariness Wesker removed himself from the corpse, sitting down a distance away. What he had to do now was keep his head on his shoulders and his feet on the ground, let logical thought slip back into the chaos of his mind.

He decided to check himself for any possible injuries first, knowing that shock could keep the pain away in moments like these and the last thing he needed was lose consciousness because of blood loss from a wound he didn't even know he had.

Luckily though, he came up with nothing serious. A few scratches, some bruises, the possible concussion. He'd live.

Giving the darkness around him another stare, as if that could make it lighten up, Wesker looked back into the direction of the corpse. He couldn't imagine the smell, it was certainly there. And if he wanted to have any realistic chances of getting out of here, then he had to go back there and search the man for any equipment, be it a flashlight or some mining tool or just a simple toothpick.

Searching his own pockets first, Wesker was disappointed to find them empty. Gulping down the nausea, he turned to the corpse apart from a ballpoint pen. And that really wouldn't help him at the moment. Reluctantly his hands moved over the body and he grimaced as he touched a bloody spot. The man's left arm had sustained an open fracture and Wesker shivered as his fingers unwillingly glided over the exposed bone.

His hands moved down the t-shirt and Wesker held his breath as he reached the damaged areas. He shut his eyes tightly as he felt something slimy under his touch, but forced himself to continue, trying to find the man's trouser pockets. Wherever they were.

That slimy something got bigger and bigger and he knew that it was no snake's skin he touched. Then suddenly it ended and he recognized the new surface as a sort of fabric; jeans fabric. With more motivation Wesker found the pockets and uttered a mutter of relief. They contained something.

He pulled out a box and opened it. Even without being able to see anything he could say that it was a cigarette pack. And it had a lighter tucked inside.

Wesker grabbed it and pressed the button. A spark of ignition. The smell of gas. No flame. He tried again with the same result. The flame appeared only on the fourth try. And as soon as it dunked the corpse in front of him in a grotesque mix of light and shadows Wesker immediately let go of the switch again. For now, it was better dark.

He moved away from the body and stood up, supporting himself with his hands on the wall. Then he lit up the tunnel. The lighter's flame was by far not powerful enough to reveal any details. He could barely see the other wall which was a little more than an arm's length away.

Wesker held the flame back into the direction of the body, averting his eyes from the corpse itself. Rather, he focused on the many stones that blocked his way back out and by the time the metal on the lighter had started to burn and he had to turn it off, Wesker realized one thing:

There was no going back.

And what now?

Staying here was the one option, going on was the other. For Wesker, the decision stood a moment later. He wouldn't dwell to experience the particular stages of the corpse's decay. The probability that people from the other side managed to clear the way quick enough before he would die of thirst was fairly low. And the possibility of him managing to dig his way back out even lower.

The flame sprung to life once again, this time shedding its light into the opposite direction. The one that led in deeper, the one, that hopefully led out.

Tucking the lighter and the pack of cigarettes into his pocket, Wesker placed one hand on the cold stone wall. It would be a waste to keep the lighter on. He wouldn't gain much from it other than burning his fingers. Perhaps it would be useful later.

Carefully, he started walking. One hand drew along on the wall and Wesker realized the rough surface of it. It didn't seem manmade. The sharp jags and dents spoke against the use of tools and he doubted anyone would have crafted a hole into the ground that was barely big enough to fit a single person. But then again, who was he, the researcher or the miner?

He could touch the other wall and not even stretch his arms completely. Walking in an upright position was almost impossible. He bumped his head a number of times before he decided to go bent over.

What Wesker found out soon was that with the absence of sight, all his other senses heightened considerably. He wasn't able to place all of the impressions, but one more than all others managed to capture his attention.

Sound.

Or rather, the lack thereof. Whenever he stopped to listen for any noise, it hit him like a fist in the face. There was only his breathing and when he held that back there was _nothing_. If he kept his breath long enough there would be a slight throbbing in his lungs, then in his heart and finally a faint

_-thud thud thud-_

in his ears before he was forced to gasp for more oxygen. When he walked, the thudding would be bridged over by the noise of his shoes against the stone (_thump thump thump_). It was similar, but not quite the same and in the darkness he could tell a lot of differences he hadn't bothered to notice before.

One of his hands moved away from the wall and touched his forehead, trying to feel for any possible injuries. All along the journey, be it _thud_ or _thump_ a constant _throbthrobthrobthrob_ was beating in the back of his head. He must have hit it in the short period of unconsciousness.

Has it even been short?

Had it even been a blackout for that matter? He couldn't remember the few moments between the collapse and him regaining his senses again. For all it mattered, not minutes but hours could have passed since then! An idea occurred to him and he sought the lighter from his pocket. Two tries and the little flame buzzed. He held it over his left wrist and was at once dismayed.

There was a large crack on his watch. None of the pointers moved anymore. They had stopped at 9:43 so Wesker chose it the time when God decided he should pay for his sins. In a burst of disgust and frustration he wriggled the object free from his hand and flung it against the ground, hard.

The lighter's flame wasn't powerful enough to show him the result of his outburst and neither did he get the time to search for his discarded watch. His fingers started to burn on the metal and Wesker dropped the heated lighter with a curse.

"Goddamn…"

Continuing to utter under his breath Wesker crouched, groping around the stone floor for the small item. He found it beside his left shoe and placed it back into his pocket, praying that it had enough gas to last him through the journey.

When silence returned and settled into the tunnel again Wesker's head changed from _throbbing_ into _THROBBING_ and the

_-thud thud thud-_

in his chest was suddenly there, the oxygen was gone and he was left gulping for air like a fish ashore.

Then, as sudden as it had come it went away again. Wesker held his chest, felt his heart rate slow down and decided that whatever blow to the head he had suffered was turning into more than a nice concussion.

Wesker perked his ears. The thudding was still there. Or rather, no… no. It wasn't thudding. He found himself looking down at his legs, but they weren't moving.

A distant echo of thumping had reached him. The sound came in regular intervals.

As if someone's walking…

Wesker pursed his lips, leant closer against the wall and listened again.

_-thump thump thump thumpthumpthump-_

Unmistakably. Unmistakably louder, too. Whoever was walking was approaching rather than going away. Something flared up in his guts and he didn't know whether it was relief of having found a fellow survivor or downright discomfort of having no means to crush the invader's skull.

His fingers snaked around the lighter.

The thump sounds were becoming louder -_thump!_- and followed in quicker succession. Somebody was running.

He got the lighter out of his pocket and placed a finger on the little wheel, ready to turn it and get a glimpse of the other person when it was close enough.

Meanwhile, it _THUMPED_ and if there was a corner ahead, the individual had to be just around it.

For a moment he wondered whether he could stay unnoticed, hold his breath and cease any movements. Would the other person just walk by?

In the instant that he had decided it probably wouldn't, Wesker realized with horror that the _THUMPs_ had stopped.

First he felt the cold breath that didn't belong to him.

And then cold, bony fingers tightened around his throat like a deadly snake strangling its victim.

* * *

**Ah yes, I think it will be a lot more fun with our favorite evil geniuses split up, at least for the moment. As you can see Wesker found some company along the way, stay tuned to see what Spencer's golden boy William is up to in the next chapter.**

**Drop your opinion if you want (I'd deffo appreciate) and see you next time around!**

**Cheers,  
Chaed**


	6. Chapter VI

Chapter VI

This couldn't be. This couldn't be. It just couldn't _BE_!

His fingers scraping against the stone, he ignored the shudder it gave him every time his nails scratched against the hard surface, panic too high up on the emotional ladder to allow any other feelings.

"Help me, goddamn!" he bellowed into the darkness, grabbing another rock and throwing it out of the way.

"Dr Birkin!" Smidt pleaded from behind, holding out two arms in an attempt to restrain him. "There's no chance! You must stop lest it comes to a collapse again. Please, doctor!"

But Birkin didn't even show the slightest motivation to decrease his pace.

_Idiots, all idiots! _he screamed in his mind as he shook free of the other man's grasp, tossing the next stone into his direction. _We're going to kick the fucking bucket if nobody moves their ass!_

Smidt said something in Swahili Birkin didn't understand and didn't particularly care about, until a pair of strong arms embraced him in a not so lovely fashion. With a grip that was as hard as the stone surrounding them Birkin was dragged away from the rock front. He kicked and writhed to regain freedom, cursing at the top of his voice. When he unceremoniously kissed the wall, Birkin fell silent within the second.

The arms around him loosened and he was granted a moment of pause.

Smidt talked again. "My sincere apologies, doctor. Have you calmed down?"

In a way, Birkin had. His head was still ringing from the impact and he hadn't yet fully accepted the fact that one of the workers had just slammed him into the tunnel wall after a brief struggle. On Smidt's command?

_Who does he think he is?!_

He muttered a barely coherent "yeah" to please the other man.

"Please understand, doctor. Your continued attempts did more harm than good. The ceiling could have collapsed again and this time we might not have been so lucky and escape unscathed."

"There might still be people outside!"

"There is no hope for them. As much as it is worth, my sympathies for Dr Wesker. But if he didn't make it to this side, his chances are fairly slim. I cannot have you endanger three lives for one that might not even exist anymore."

_The_ _nerve!_ Birkin was about to come up with a fitting retort, tell Smidt that this was no way to talk to a superior and that he was paid to obey his higher-ups, not contradict them! But as it was, Birkin only clenched his teeth in rage. Down in hell corporation ranks and doctorates mattered next to nothing.

He was angry, furious even and in a fair amount of worry for Wesker's whereabouts, but before all of that came that curious sense of self preservation that told him it wasn't a good idea to remind Smidt that he was expandable and that he, Birkin, wouldn't hesitate to inform Mr Spencer himself about just that.

Smidt and the remaining worker were in superior number and for now Birkin had to keep his mouth shut. New ranks had been established and he wasn't at the top. For all he knew Smidt could exchange a few more lines in Swahili with his black friend and Birkin would find himself with an open skull a moment later, left to bleed to death in a deserted underground tunnel.

Because, let's face it, Smidt had the upper hand. Smidt had the flashlight. And that put him on mount olympus in a line with all the mighty deities.

"I'm glad you understand, doctor," Smidt said and pointed the scepter of power to the ground, so as not to blind either of them.

Birkin used the moment to scrutinize his two companions. The worker in his ripped, checked shirt and dusty jeans. He didn't have a flashlight, but he had brute force and muscles. The dull throbbing in his temples assured Birkin that he was no match for the man. A wrong move and his skull would kiss the stone wall again and Birkin didn't want to find out which was going to cave in under the impact.

"The way back is no possibility," Smidt pointed out flatly and in a very awkward way that comment reminded Birkin of Wesker. Perhaps he'd made it to one of the other entrances. Birkin shrugged and banned the other option from his mind. There was nothing he could do from here, either way.

A few lines in Swahili were exchanged, the torch turned into the open tunnel end. More conversation Birkin didn't understand, then Smidt finally had the grace to turn around and translate.

"Mr Sembe claims there must be another exit. This tunnel is built by men and not by nature. Whoever made it must have gotten out again."

Birkin was hesitant. "And what if they never finished it? If we're walking into a dead end?"

Smidt frowned, exchanged a glance with the worker who apparently went by the name Sembe, but didn't bother to translate Birkin's doubts.

Eventually he said, "Then at least we tried. Come; Mr Sembe will lead the way. He is employed as a miner, if there are any instabilities in the construct of the tunnel, he will alert us."

_Yeah_, Birkin thought but voiced his lack of motivation in a forced sigh. _Just like he warned us when the ceiling came down the first time…_

Wordlessly, he fell into motion, quickly as to walk in the protective light of Smidt's torch. Very soon, he couldn't see the collapsed part behind him anymore. Neither could he see what was ahead. Darkness engulfed everything.

In front of him both men suddenly stopped and as Birkin glanced over their shoulders he remembered at once where they were. Growing undisturbed by the events around them was the batch of six Progenitor plants. Birkin felt an immediate rush of anger at them. They were the reason why he was trapped here.

"Don't get too near," Smidt warned and Birkin rolled his eyes annoyedly, as if taking the word of caution as an insult to his intelligence.

They passed the flowers with Birkin suppressing the urge to cut off a bouquet and send it to Spencer as a souvenir.

The way became progressively harder to master. Birkin was sure that the height of the ceiling was decreasing and the aching muscles in his back only backed that assumption up. He could also touch both walls with his outstretched arms, something he hadn't been able to do so before.

A terrible fear settled in his chest. Was it a sign that the tunnel ended? Were they going to get stuck? Irreversibly? Die a wretched death of starvation?

_No, you'd kick the bucket because it's empty. Thirst gets you first._

But the beam of Smidt's flashlight was like the literal light at the end of the tunnel and Birkin willed himself to ignore his worries. This might just as well be some form of claustrophobia. He'd never shown signs of it before, but then again, he'd never been trapped in an underground cave system either.

The tunnel suddenly widened again and they were faced with a fork in the road. Both options looked equally unwelcoming to Birkin. When Smidt flashed the specter of power into both ways, something caught Birkin's eye.

"Wait, go back. There!"

Smidt illuminated the wall of the left tunnel and Birkin elbowed his way in between the two other men to inspect the stone closer. He traced his finger over the cold, uneven surface, then looked back at Smidt and the worker.

"It's an X." he stated.

"A what?"

Birkin pointed to the rough lines scratched across the stone.

"An X. Someone carved an X here." Hope flared up. "Someone must have been here before."

Smidt came closer and touched the wall himself, before looking at Birkin quizzically.

"And what does it mean?"

At that, the researcher shrugged. "It could be like the X on a map, marking the treasure. But I don't think there's anything worthy down here."

"We should check anyway. There are no markings on the other walls, this could be a sign."

Smidt set forth, but Birkin hastily stopped him.

"No! Wait, wait! For all we know it could mean the opposite thing too! 'Don't go there'. What if whoever wrote that put it there as a warning?"

"A warning?" Smidt echoed rather amused. "All that can happen is that we run into a dead end."

"Or another unstable ceiling," Birkin said, crossing his arms. "We should take the other way."

Smidt pondered for a moment, then slowly nodded his head. "Alright."

So he swung his scepter of light into the right tunnel and they went on. The way snaked through the stone for another while, but when the two men in front of him stopped yet again and Birkin peeked over their shoulders, his enthusiasm immediately plummeted. It ended. There was another collapse and no way in heaven or hell would they be able to move a single stone from there without a handful of good old dynamite.

The worker, Sembe, said something and stretched a long finger towards the ceiling. It was a lot higher here, perhaps two man high in total. Smidt followed Sembe's prompt and illuminated the top. A collective intake of breaths followed next.

"Do we fit through there?" Birkin asked. The way hadn't been blocked completely, a small part below the ceiling was still free. None of them were big, so it might work.

Smidt spoke the tongue of the gods and commanded Sembe to try it out for them. His path was illuminated by the flashlight and the worker started to climb the fallen stones without protest. Birkin held his breath as he watched the man and prayed that he'd make it to the other side. Because if Sembe succeeded, Birkin would too. He was a little smaller and definitely thinner.

Sembe had reached the highest point and was now trying to squeeze through the opening. Smidt moved a little up the stones himself to provide better light and Birkin realized with a dark insight that his guide wouldn't give the flashlight out of his hands as long as he still had the power to hold on to it.

The worker was halfway through to the other side when Birkin decided that all of them could make it through without a lot of problems. He had to insist on being the second, though. He trusted Smidt as much as he trusted Spencer and didn't particularly want to be left alone in the dark.

But then Sembe's legs disappeared from their sight a lot quicker than should be possible and when a terrified scream resounded in the cavern, Birkin decided that Smidt could be the second to cross after all, if he wanted.

Then he started running. Somewhere outside the flashlight's beam, Sembe kept on screaming.

* * *

**Don't worry, it's just the plotbunny that got the worker. He's in good hands. See you in chapter 7, when we check back on Wesker... and his companion.**


	7. Chapter VII

Chapter VII

He was knocked over by the sole impact and found himself wriggling on the ground like a worm trying to escape a bird's grasp. Two iron hands were slung around his throat and in the absolute darkness Wesker saw white spots sparkle before his eyes. His own hands clawed at the attacker's and he used his nails to dig them into the other's skin.

There was a yelp and more pressure to his windpipe in response.

"Shetani!"

Wesker didn't understand what that meant, but could interpret the throbbing in his ears as clear sign that he had to do something soon, or he would asphyxiate. He opened his mouth in a desperate attempt to inhale air. The hands around his throat were set on squashing it completely.

Instinctively, his own hands found their way to his opponent's face. Balling his fingers into a fist, Wesker slammed it into what he thought was a jaw. There was a moment's release and a gasp (he was too busy to realize that it came from his own mouth) and with oxygen flooding his mind again, survival instinct kicked in.

He brought his knee up with as much force as he could muster, connecting with the person's thigh. A groan broke the silence and Wesker felt a wicked sense of satisfaction. The grip around his throat loosened a moment later and he thought he'd won.

The feeling didn't last long.

"Shetani, shetani, _SHETANI_!"

_shii_-

He cried out in pain and surprise. The assailant had pressed his thumbs into Wesker's eyes and was trying feverishly to push them out the other side. The agony was literally blinding. He tried to draw his head back, away from the pressure, but solid rock prevented that. Wesker screamed, pushing at the man's face. His palms skimmed over rough stubble, found mouth with teeth and gum and lashed out with his other fist in an attempt to hurt the attacker enough to let go.

_goddamn goddamn, the pain!_

Moaning, Wesker felt tears and saw bright white, certain that in the next moments his eyeballs would give in to the abuse and burst. He gripped at the stony ground in some grotesque way of preparation, when his fingers twined around a larger rock.

There wasn't a moment's hesitation. The rock hammered against his attacker's head, fragile skull cracking under the force. The pressure on his eyes was gone almost instantly, but Wesker kept hewing. At first there was only blood, but when his own pain had withdrawn a little and gave way to rational thought again, the blood had turned into spongy tissue.

Wesker let the rock fall and brushed his hand on his labcoat with nauseating disgust.

_Kill! Kill! You killed him! You've got his brains on your hands to prove for it!_

Wesker crawled away from the corpse until his back hit the wall. By that point the adrenaline had vanished and left him with a blinding pain in his head. As if his eyes wanted to throb their way out of his skull.

He brought his left hand up to palpate his eye sockets (his right hand was still dirty with brain and cerebral fluids) and he winced at the bolts of agony the touch spawned. Blinking against the white spots Wesker was marginally relieved to find that they got lost in the different shades of black with every passing minute. Soon the image of absolute darkness returned to him and the sharp pain dulled down to a numb throbbing.

It was time for the light in the middle of the tunnel.

He produced the lighter from his pocket and fired it up. The first thing he saw was the glassy coat of blood and pulpy mass on his hand. Then he crawled back to the corpse. The fire went out during the process, so when he reached the lifeless body and illuminated it, his deed was even more sinister. A good part of the man's skull had caved in under Wesker's repetitive assaults. There was bone, covered in blood, skin and hair. Here and there was brain, but most of it had adopted a reddish color and was hard to distinguish from the rest.

The man's face was a visage of terror, eyes wide open, pupils diluted in pretense that they could see better that way. Over a bulky frame he wore a ripped checked shirt and ripped dusty jeans. But not all damage to the material had been done by over usage alone.

And for the life of him Wesker couldn't remember to have clawed the man so cruelly across the belly.

_And even if you had, your nails don't leave such traces._

Such long, open cuts. If he really wanted, Wesker might be able to ablate the first layer of skin, but whoever had done this had dug deep into flesh. The man was undoubtedly a worker, one of the initial survivors. Although the state he was in made Wesker uncomfortable, the thought of not being alone down here momentarily excited him.

Because someone had done this to the worker. With a knife, perhaps a sharp stone. There could have been disagreements that led to the deed. Wesker clipped the lighter shut, placed it back into his pocket and stepped over the fallen.

He refused to think about a reason for the infliction of the injury, explained it away with a similar act of self defense to his own. If there was another survivor down here – perhaps even Birkin? – then Wesker was intent on finding out.

He placed one hand on the wall for guidance and started to move, glad that the throbbing in his eyes continuously faded. That was good. Sight might not be the most useful sense at the moment, but Wesker was happy that no lasting damage had been made to his eyes anyway.

The corridor slung on for quite a while. Then, out of nowhere, he bumped into solid stone. The lighter sprung to life. He'd reached a fork in the road. Both ways looked equally unwelcoming. He pointed the torch to the ground, but there was no possible way to make out where the crazy man had come from.

Eventually Wesker decided for the left. The lighter was put away, his palm touched the cold stone wall. He went on.

It wasn't long until he stumbled over something and to his absolute horror, that something was very soft in comparison to the hard rock he had become used to. Wesker stumbled another few steps, before shedding light on the matter.

He recoiled from the sight similar to when he had first gripped into the emptiness that should have been one man's legs.

Slumped against the cave wall sat a corpse and it made the realization sink in that he was not the first one to wander this place. Wesker felt bile rise in the back of his throat and averted the flame from the thing's empty eye sockets.

_It must have been lying here for years. _

What was left of the skin was quickly decaying and now that he paid attention to it, the air was full of moldy stench. Beard looked like it grew from bone and the lips had retraced to reveal a partial denture. Beside the man was an equally old backpack.

Wesker bent down to grab it. The wind his movement caused blew out the little flame, but by that time he had already gripped one of the rucksack's leather strings. A few steps away from the corpse he sat down and emptied the bag, for the moment disregarding its previous owner, or why he had ended up that way.

It was quickly obvious that the individual had been an explorer, or archeologist. Wesker found a handful of tools that indicated this. He also found a flask of water and and a portion of food, but decided to stay away from that. Who knew how long they had lain here. The last thing he needed was stomach ache because of bad food. He also found a small knife with wooden handle and pocketed it quickly. The last item in the bag was a small, leather clad book, not bigger than Wesker's hand. A journal.

He opened it and held the flame closer. It was full of notes and drawings and although the writing was hard to decipher, one thing about it caused a mix of emotions to flare up. He wasn't sure whether his little discovery was a good or a bad one. The journal was written in English.

After a few moments of repose for the lighter (the metal was starting to burn his fingers) Wesker found the last inscribed page of the book. He raised his eyebrow at the only sentence that filled the upper part of the page and felt like someone was playing a very bad joke on him.

'_No humanity is left for this place.'_

was scribbled in neat handwriting. He turned a page back. The writer talked about different rock types here, nothing that really interested Wesker and nothing that had anything to do with the next entry. He browsed the book some more until the lighter in his hand began to smolder. He dropped it with a hiss and closed the journal too. As far as he could make out there had been no dates or whatsoever that could help him guess its age or be of any benefit to him. Yet it still he found a place to fit the journal into the pocket of his labcoat.

He did not return to the corpse to loot it. The way led on some more, then there was a dead end. Wesker felt disappointed, his motivation for an alternate escape route from the tunnel labyrinth sinking. He saw himself wandering around aimlessly until thirst got the better of him and dragged him to his knees and he'd end up like the archeologist, slumped against the wall. Or he would find the other survivor and flee the dark corridors with a knife wound in his guts until there would be more blood outside of him than in his veins.

Wesker turned around, gripped the newly acquired knife in his pocket and promised himself that the second alternative was never going to turn real, no matter what actions it required.

He passed the corpse and stumbled over its decaying legs again. He went on until he reached the fork. This time he took the other way, certain that this had to be the way the worker had come from. And perhaps this was the way back out.

But his hopes didn't get a chance of reaching adequate heights. The walls around him tightened more and more and he felt cornered, his heart thudding louder and louder. Soon, he had to lower himself on hands and knees.

Was this really the way the other had come from?

_It has to be. There is no other possibility. He didn't materialize out of thin air._

But the walls oppressed him and Wesker's frustration rose as both shoulders scratched against stone. The air around him was heating up, not giving him the oxygen he needed. From a chilly cold the tunnel around him had suddenly turned into an oven. Perhaps there was no other possibility, but the fear of being stuck suddenly overwhelmed him. He wasn't going to crawl on.

His mind made up he tried to turn around. Of course, that didn't work. He tried to put his despair off with an uncertain shake of his head.

_No, of course it doesn't work. You barely fit through the way as you are, how could you possibly turn around?_

So he started to crawl back slowly, the little stones below his palms and knees mercilessly digging into his skin.

All of a sudden he stopped, frozen to the place. From behind him – clearly from behind – came an abyssal screech. It let the blood in his veins freeze. He didn't know what had made it, but he didn't even finish the thought as he was crawling again, forward this time, at a remarkable pace.

Soon his shoulders hit stone again, but in his panic Wesker hardly cared, pressing on. He couldn't hear anything apart from his own wriggling and breathing and heart beating, and he was too terrified to stop and listed for thump thumps of steps or clitter clatters of something else. Not in a stone corridor where he couldn't even turn around to see what was behind him.

He couldn't reach for the lighter in his pocket, so he wormed on blindly. By this point, he was pulling himself forward on his elbows, the tunnel not high enough to allow him to crawl anymore. The screech repeated itself, this time further away. It was no reason for Wesker to slow down though. He briefly scolded himself for not checking on the archeologist in more detail. He did have water and food with him, Wesker reminded himself, so why had he so foolishly assumed that the reason of death was starvation?

_Why did you assume that those injuries were done by a knife and not a claw?_

And why was there no humanity left down here? Wesker hit his head, cursed, and crawled on. The way was getting tighter again and Wesker absurdly thought about the potion Alice had found in Wonderland, the one that was able to change her size. But rationality told him that he could have no such potion and that it certainly wasn't the Cheshire Cat screaming in the darkness.

When he placed one hand in front of the other the next time, it gripped thin air instead of solid stone. The narrowness around him gave place to voluminous space. Wesker didn't know what hit him until he found himself sliding down. It wasn't like falling into a vertical hole, more like rolling down a very raw steep.

He desperately tried to reduce speed and find something to hold on to, but before he could do anything helpful he toppled over, went head over heels and in the back of his mind thought that this simply couldn't be the right way!

Then his head connected with the stone ground and the world turned one level darker.


	8. Chapter VIII

Chapter VIII

William Birkin had never run with such urgency in his life and he didn't think that he would be able to repeat this sprint under other circumstances. In the shaky guide of Smidt's flashlight the two of them moved back the way they came from, stumbling, struggling and panting.

Nobody wanted to stay to assist poor Mr Sembe.

Smidt suddenly tripped and fell, and so did the flashlight with him. Left in darkness it took only a split second for Birkin to join that fate, unceremoniously slapping against a stone wall. He grunted and brought his hand up to his nose, all the while starting to run again, so big was his panic.

_Screw them, both of them! Dunces, now they had it their way!_

But a few steps and stumbles later Birkin had to admit to himself that while he could screw Smidt and Sembe and whatever had gotten the latter, he could not abandon the light in the middle of the tunnel.

He turned around into what he thought was the direction he had come from, his heart suddenly beating very loud, his breaths giving him away to possible predators and his steps instable on the ground.

Birkin jogged, one hand pressed against the wall for guidance and after what seemed to be a corner, he saw the white bulb of Smidt's flashlight.

"Doctor!"

Smidt sat on the ground, his features distorted in pain and underlined by the game of light and shadow. He was clutching his right foot. Upon seeing Birkin some of the terror on his face gave place to hope.

_False hope_, he thought grimly.

Smidt seemed to realize this too as he approached, and quickly let go of his injured ankle, crawling the distance to the flashlight and swooping it up.

"You have to help me!" It sounded like a plea, but Birkin knew what it really was. _'You can't have it, you yankee pig. We'll all rot down here!'_

Somewhere behind them, Sembe's screams took an all too abrupt end. It scared both men more than as if he had continued wailing. Smidt pressed the flashlight against his torso and it illuminated his face like a storyteller's who wants to scare little children.

"He's dead!" Smidt cried. "You have to help me, Dr Birkin, we have to get out of here!"

For a moment, Birkin contemplated giving the other man a hand. It was a very short consideration. There was one last high-pitched scream, a display of all the agony and terror Sembe must have gone through in the last moments of his life. Following that was some kind of gurgle and a screech. Neither sound seemed human.

But what had Birkin decide the way he did was neither of these. It was the quick succession of steps coming from behind them, and what was making them was not Sembe. He didn't have that many legs.

Smidt had heard it too, but was still too shocked to act. Birkin's survival skills were better. He kicked the man into his guts, ripped the scepter of power from his hands and turned on his heels, ignoring Smidt's pleas. They were soon swallowed by darkness.

Birkin kept running, first like an athlete and when the construction of the cave allowed him to go only bent over he fell into a light jog. At last, he stopped, supporting himself against the wall, only now noticing that he had done the last few meters without oxygen. His body achingly reminded him of that.

"…shit…. shit, shit, _shit_…"

_And to hell with anyone who heard it!_

He was dead! So dead as the stone around him and the companions he had left behind. Oh God, whatever had gotten them, let it not find him! Thirst, starvation, he'd embrace even a death of asphyxiation if he could evade this sorry future! Let the lack of air kill him, not whatever inhabited these gruesome caverns!

He tried to sort out the pounding of his heart in his ears. It certainly didn't belong there. After a few deep intakes of dusty air Birkin forced himself to calm down. He brushed the cold sweat from his forehead and gazed at the little stones between his feet illuminated in the ring of light. His shoes were already coated with a thick layer of dust and the leather had been scratched in various places. Never mind shoes. If he ever got out of here he'd buy a truckload full of shoes.

Having calmed down a bit at last, Birkin took his wits together and flashed the torch at his surroundings. He couldn't see more than a little stone here, some more there and a few rocks to complete the picture. The sense of orientation had left him long ago.

Still, he didn't think he'd reached that forking yet, the one with the ominous 'X' carved into the left branch. A main priority had made its way to the top of his mind again and Birkin wanted to backtrack to the beginning and retry his initial attempt to free the blockade caused by the first collapse. With a little more space, time and light he might be out of here in a matter of minutes.

_Perhaps they even cleared out a way again._

His motivation rose, and the shock he was still subdued to swept the fates of Smidt and Sembe from his mind. Birkin started a bent over walk, the muscles in his back protesting.

Soon he reached the batch of Progenitor plants and steered clear of the herbs, quickening his pace to get around them. Not five minutes later – or how ever long it took really took him – Birkin arrived at the end of the tunnel, quite literally.

And now, holding the flashlight in his own hands, Birkin finally understood Smidt's earlier rebuke. The devastating realisation sank in.

There was no way back.

For the first time Birkin felt the cold sweat on his skin and it chilled him to the very bone. Very suddenly, he knew he was going to die. It was a dry fact and there was no sweet-talking around it. He was all alone in a god forsaken cave system and his best bet was to die of thirst, or asphyxiation, if he didn't want to end up like Sembe and probably Smidt too.

Birkin held on to the flashlight as if he was gripping life's last threads. It was the only thing he could relate to in the absolute darkness surrounding him, made of cold stone walls, brute, rugged rock and the smell of stuffy air that hadn't seen the outside world in years.

He wondered where Wesker was, _if_ Wesker was still alive at all. He wondered what had happened to the others. Was Smidt still sprawled on the ground waiting for help that would never come?

But all of this was just fleeting thought, grasped in one moment and lost in the next. He was too busy concentrating on his surroundings, to jump at every suspicious noise, to try to keep his heart from its attempt to escape his ribcage and flee this place. He held the flashlight in cramped hands, and they hurt, but he didn't care, didn't dare open his grip around the only source of light – life - there was.

The fear of being alone in the dark, he realized, wasn't really about that, about being alone. It was that absurd, pulsing horror in the back of your mind that you might not be so alone at all.

Birkin sank against the wall and let his head drop. By now, his level of motivation had spiraled down to such depths that he didn't even feel like being angry at Spencer and Marcus anymore, who had called this sorry death upon him.

He considered switching off the flashlight and simply wait for everything to end. But as his finger rested upon the button Birkin realized with shame that he couldn't do it. He was like the little kid who was too afraid to look under its bed, because the boogeyman was there. And no matter how often parents would turn on the light and demonstrate that there was nothing there, the fear and _certainty_ always remained.

Birkin was afraid to turn off the light, because it was the only thing that kept his personal boogeyman from coming to get him.

So he left it on, got to his feet and took a very deep breath. There was still the other way he could explore, the one with the 'X' on it. And perhaps he could even find Smidt… at this point he didn't care whether the other man was an amiable persona or not. Any company seemed better than staying alone.

_Well, any human company…,_ Birkin thought. Whatever company Sembe had gotten himself into earlier could stay far away from _him_.

Once more he passed the Progenitor batch and upon reaching the fork, Birkin took a few moments to inspect the 'x' in more detail. Two lines were carved into the stone and the way they looked, someone had hewn into the wall multiple times. Perhaps with a sharp rock or a knife…

He held the torch into the corridor ahead of him. It was slightly larger than the one they had chosen earlier, but Birkin didn't venture in yet. Instead he took the other way and kept the flashlight pointed ahead.

"Smidt?" he called into the darkness, stopping in his walk to listen for any kind of answer. When none came, he tried again, more elaborative.

"It's Dr Birkin! I'm sorry I ran off earlier!"

Nothing. Either Smidt didn't want to talk, or he couldn't. Birkin didn't even start to think about the latter option.

"Say something, I want to help you!"

There was still no answer. Could it be that he had fallen unconscious? But no… he'd only twisted his ankle, hadn't he? Perhaps he'd hit his head in an attempt to stand up and run away? Birkin shook his head. He wasn't going to get anywhere with _what if's_ and _maybe's_.

But the tunnel ahead of him remained empty and Birkin was reluctant to search all the way to where Sembe had disappeared. He took a few more steps and when Smidt again responded with silence, Birkin turned around.

_You can't say you haven't tried. He can't accuse you of that._

But the moment he swung the flashlight into the other direction again, a rumble tore through the corridor behind him and Birkin's heart set out a few beats.

There was loud clatter of stones, then a dull impacting sound. Following it, came a barely audible moan. When silence settled again, Birkin allowed his burning lungs their much needed intake of air.

_shit_

Part of him - his legs - wanted to set into motion and try for a new record, but he found that he was paralyzed with anticipation and panic, the only thing moving at a far too fast rate being his heart.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? What _was_ that? Sembe? Smidt?

_The boogeyman?_

Birkin felt pearls of sweat materialize on his forehead. His temples throbbed with frustration.

"I'm gonna die," he whispered to himself, the need to say it out loud too overwhelming to keep it back. He turned around once more and crept deeper into the tunnel, into the direction of the commotion.

The scepter of power was shaking in his hand as if he was unworthy to hold it and the odd shadows it created on the rugged stone only terrified him more. At last he reached the place where Sembe had vanished earlier.

The empty place had just been replaced with a new body.

* * *

**Apologies for the late update, but I have an excuse that might make some of you happy! In the course of four days and a visit from a good friend (notanotherfanficauthor) we managed to write an entire story. It will feature Albert Wesker and Annette Birkin. I'm only editing the first chapter and it should go online very soon. Of course, that doesn't mean anything for this story. I will keep weekly updates coming.**

**See you soon, virtual cookies to anyone who figured out who attacked Wesker at the beginning of the last chapter.**


	9. Chapter IX

Chapter IX

When he finally regained his senses, the first action Wesker felt was utterly necessary to take was to let out a long moan, raising one hand to cover his exploding forehead. God, he felt like he had just been on a roller coaster for one too many times. His stomach cramped, bile was in the back of his throat and his skull felt like it could burst at any moment.

Something cold wrapped around his hand and jolted Wesker back into full awareness as a voice broke the silence.

"Don't touch it," a voice advised.

His eyes went wide, trying to blink up a picture in the darkness. Instinctively Wesker shot up into a sitting position, wincing at the agony the movement sent through his head, but too panicked to care about that little detail. Before he could begin to crawl out of reach, two strong hands pushed him to the ground again. Wesker began to struggle, but seconds later a bright light was held into his eyes and he covered his face as quickly as he could.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed, the sudden illumination sending bolts of pain through his body. His eyes weren't used to anything but darkness and this abrupt change had effectively blinded him. Thankfully, whoever had the power of the light switched it off again. The stranger losened his grip around him and Wesker was free to move. He got back up and collapsed against the cold wall behind him.

"Well, you do show a reaction to light. That's a good thing," the voice remarked and it held some strange familiarity, but he couldn't put his finger on it quite yet.

Instead he pushed himself up into a sitting position again, deciding for the moment that there was no danger coming from the other person. He was busy with his own problems, anyway. His head was a mess of thoughts and Wesker had to strain it very hard to come up with any kind of memory or information that would tell him where he was. He remembered Spencer's smug face back in Raccoon City and there was a flash of the underground garden where the flowers climbed towards the sun.

And then it all overcame him, like a massive flood that tore earth and land with it. The collapse, the missing legs, the struggle… and that thing. The Cheshire Cat from Wonderland he'd been too afraid to turn around and look in the eyes.

Still, the question left his mouth before he could stop it. "What happened?"

His new companion shifted in the darkness, but Wesker couldn't tell whether he moved closer or away.

"I don't know what happened to you," the man said and again Wesker thought he recognised his voice from somewhere. "You must have fallen down here and you cracked your head against a rock quite hard. You should take it easy, that must be a pretty concussion you suffered."

There was a pause in talking, then the voice said, "You don't know how happy I was when I found you, Albert."

Those words seemed to turn an invisible switch in Wesker's head.

"William?" he echoed into the darkness.

More shuffling. "Cover your eyes."

The light went on again and Wesker couldn't help but wince at the increased throbbing it caused in his head. After a while, he dared to take his hands away from his eyes and looked a little dumbfounded at the sight before him.

William Birkin's labcoat had taken on an evenly grey color and the paleness on his features contrasted grotesquely with the light in his hands. Bloodshot eyes met his own. There was a ghost of a smile on Birkin's torn lips.

"You look like shit, Al," he remarked and turned off the flashlight. "Like you'd been chewed on by Marcus' leeches and they spat you out again."

He wanted to think up a witty retort, but in that moment he remembered something very important.

"Did you see it? Did it follow me?"

There was confusion in Birkin's voice as he answered. "See what? There was nothing here apart from you when I arrived. That blow must have really gotten to you…"

"No," he shook his head, almost angry at Birkin for being so ignorant. "Something was following me. I heard it scramble behind me. I heard it _screech_."

There was an outdrawn pause, then a heavy sigh. His friend's next words chilled him to the bone. "I know. It got Mr Sembe. And probably Smidt, too. I managed to flee."

The situation had just taken a turn for the worse, Wesker was absolutely sure. They had become part of some sick horror movie, and in that moment he wouldn't put it past Spencer to be enjoying their dilemma on some security screen in Raccoon.

He found himself reaching into the pocket of his trousers, but all his fingers could wrap around was thin air. A light despair settled on Wesker's features, but it was invisible in the darkness.

"My knife… I had a knife with me."

"The only thing you had on you was an old journal. I browsed through it a little."

"I found a little knife. With a wooden handle. It must have slipped out of my pocket when I fell. Hand me the flashlight, William."

Perhaps he only imagined the reluctance as his friend passed him the light, but Wesker couldn't help and be angry at Birkin's open disinterest in the matter. If they had lost the knife, they had lost their only means to defend themselves. Why wasn't he even helping to search for it?

But Birkin seemed to have other issues on his mind. "That journal. Where did you find it?"

"I stumbled over a corpse, quite literally," Wesker said, pursing his lips in frustration. Where the hell was the knife? "Been there for some years, by the looks of it. I collected the pocket knife and the book off it." He stopped in his search, sighing, and pointed the flashlight into Birkin's direction, briefly blinding the other man.

"It must have been an archeologist, an explorer." After a frustrated pause he added, "My head's dreading to explode. I'm turning off the light now."

So their surroundings were dipped into blackness again, but for the first time this darkness was soothing to Wesker, calming the throbbing behind his eyes.

"I took a look at the journal," Birkin said, unstraying from his topic. In the dark, Wesker rolled his eyes.

"And?"

"It's mostly only notes about rock, herbs and other such things. Sadly none of it is dated, although the last inscribed page deviates from the rest."

Wesker sighed. "I know. 'There is no humanity left down here'."

Birkin seemed confused at this. "You read it? In the dark?"

"I have a pack of cigarettes and a lighter."

This seemed to bring up even more confusion and strayed greatly from their original theme. "Wait, you _smoke?_"

Wesker hissed, felt like facepalming. "Never mind. I have a light, alright? I read that last sentence and it made no sense, other than appearing to me like a lame joke."

"It does make some sense," Birkin corrected. "As long as you were out of it, I took the time to browse the book. Do you remember the Ndypaya tribe?"

Wesker nodded vaguely. "The Underground Garden belonged to them."

"Correct. That, and apparently an entire subterranean civilisation. Henry Travis wrote about them for the first and last time, introducing Sonnentreppe. This guy you found there seemed to be in good relations with the tribe too. There are various entries about their culture, lives and what-have-you. It seems he stayed with them for quite a while.

At one point he describes some sort of 'test of courage' to determine who was going to be the next leader of the tribe. For that the bravest warriors would venture down into the Underground Garden, devour a few plants of Progenitor to 'strenghten' them and then head into the caves. Who made it out a week later won."

"What was in the caves that would prevent them from returning?"

"I wouldn't know." There was a short pause and Wesker could almost imagine his colleague smile. "I didn't get so far yet."

Part of him wanted to urge Birkin to continue reading or just grab the journal himself, but the other part, the logic mind, just wanted out. And the prospect that there might be a way out, that there just had to be a way out, was far more intriguing than the fear of invisible monsters.

"If someone came down here, we can get out," he said.

"In theory, that should work, yeah. Down this road there is a forking and one way I haven't explored yet."

Wesker didn't quite like the 'in theory' bit, but had to remind himself that they were still in the middle of nowhere. From here on everything was just assumptions and hopes. Because, if the way out was really that easy to find, he told himself, then there was no reason for the explorer's corpse to be there in the first place.

Birkin continued. "That way has something funny about it, though. I'm quite sure somebody has used it before. It's marked with an 'X'."

That picked his interest. "An 'X'?"

"I think someone carved it into the rock, though I'm still unsure what it means. It's either 'go there' or 'stay away' and the wrong choice could cost us our lives."

"Do we have alternatives?"

The next words came with such certainty that they almost physically hurt Wesker. "No. No alternatives."

"Then any minute we spend here longer is wasted. Let's get going."

Birkin turned on the flashlight and it hurt Wesker's eyes initially. He left some space between them as they walked, his eyes still sensitive to the sudden light. It didn't seem to bother Birkin as much, but then again Birkin hadn't hit his head a dozen times that day.

When they reached the fork in the road, his companion was quick to point at the carvings he had mentioned before.

"See," he said as he traced the rugged lines with his finger. "Someone made this. Cut into the stone with a sharp object. I doubt he did it with his nails, they would have broken with the strain."

Wesker diverted his sight from the X and watched the black corridor ahead of him with uneasiness. He'd had that gut feeling from the beginning, from the exact point that they had put foot into the mines.

He thought he remembered feeling his stomach knot up when the ceiling had come down.

He thought he remembered a nauseating sickness just before the worker had lunged at him, screaming.

Right now it was there again, pulsating in some deep part of his bowels. Something was bound to happen soon. And in a place God had never even glimpsed at, he doubted it was going to be something nice.

But as Birkin had said before, with so much conviction in his voice:

There were no alternatives.

* * *

**My apologies for the late update. I got a laser surgery on my eyes - no more glasses, yay! - and completely forgot about the fact that I wouldn't be able to access the computer in time for the regular update. I did, however, have time to think up a lot of action and horror sequences, so you have something to look forward to for next chapters.**


	10. Chapter X

Chapter X

Birkin shone the flashlight ahead, trudging on in a monotonous pace. From what he could tell the corridor was fairly straight and the ceiling kept an even height. There had been no more markings on the wall so far.

Behind him Wesker followed with some distance, apparently still blinded by the light. Ironically he had lost his sunglasses. While Birkin thought that they were quite dispensable most of the time, they could have come in handy for this situation.

Their journey proceeded in silence. None of them was eager for conversation and in a way the silence was their ally. Nothing could approach them without making itself noticeable.

Birkin didn't even mind the lack of talk so much. It left him to wonder about the journal in his pocket and all the secrets it might contain. Whoever had ventured down here had an extensive amount of knowledge about this hellish place. And not to forget, the corpse Wesker had found was clear proof that there was a way out of here. There simply had to be, because Birkin doubted they sold leather-bound books in mucky, deserted caverns.

Even the carved X at the beginning of the tunnel could be explained that way. The explorer must have marked the right way so he could get back to the surface. The thought warmed Birkin. They just had to follow the markings and they'd be out in no time.

_Easy as that._

Despite the frustrating situation they were in, he found that his spirits slowly lifted from the abyss they had fallen only thing that still bothered him was that sentence on the journal's last page. Why was there no more humanity down here? Had there been one in the first place? Had these caves been inhabited by humans once? Birkin highly doubted that. Who the hell would willingly live in a place like this if they had the option of accessing the surface?

Suddenly the torch in his hand flickered. Birkin shook it and it returned to shine normally. His heart returned to beat normally too. God, he could have sworn it'd set out a split second.

"What was that?" Wesker inquired from behind.

"Nothing," he said and inspected the flashlight again. Perhaps just some contact… "No problem here."

He continued walking, but couldn't shake off the thought of it not being only a contact. What if it was the batteries? Unconsciously Birkin tightened his grip on the scepter of power. What if that power was transitory? If it wasn't the contact, then it had to be the batteries and if it was the batteries then this had just turned into a game against time.

He decided not to voice this concern to Wesker. If there really was no humanity left down here, then at least let there be the artificial light of cheap torch.

The way continued straight, but there was a difference in the air Birkin gradually noticed. It was getting heavier. All this time it had that stuffy smell to it, like a tomb that hasn't been opened for hundreds of years. Now it was slowly changing. It was getting colder, moist and there was a thin layer of brume on the walls. Could this mean that they were ascending? He hadn't noticed the way slinging upwards, but that didn't have to mean much. In this maze of darkness he had long since lost orientation.

At one point Birkin stopped and perked his ears. With his heart almost in his ears it was a wonder he could hear anything else than his own body. But he did, and another spark of hope lit up.

"Hear that?" he asked Wesker.

"It's water."

Oh yes. drip drip drip drip. It had to be. Birkin hurried his pace, almost falling into a run. There was a long winded corner ahead of them and when they rounded it he jarred to a halt. The corners of his mouth dropped, his face turned into a grimace and seconds later he barely missed Wesker's shoes as he unceremoniously emptied his stomach on the floor.

Birkin had seen a lot in his life. There was constant talk about failed tests and the cruelty of human experimentation. That all brought images with it, sights a normal person couldn't even imagine. He'd seen more gore in his life than all of the Raccoon Police Department together. It wasn't the gore that made him vomit.

It was the all so sudden drain of hope.

Before them, slumped against a mucky stone wall was another one of the workers. The flashlight in Birkin's hands revealed deep gashes on the corpse's face. The eyes were still open, not white but red with blood.

drip drip drip

it continued as they watched the motionless body and how the life juice flowed out of it.

"Blood… not water," Wesker said beside him.

"Who the hell did this to him?"

"I don't think somebody did this to him," Wesker opined. "Not who… _what?_"

Birkin chewed his lip. In that very moment he knew the right answer to his own question.

Wesker took the flashlight out of his grip faster than he could react and approached the worker, crouching down beside him. As he started palpating the man's body, Birkin furrowed a brow.

"What are you doing?"

"Surviving," came the blunt reply. "Whatever I can find will aid us more than him."

He procured an ID card, identifying the corpse as Kato Dubako. After discarding that again Wesker found the man's only property. A screwdriver. Seemingly satisfied he put it into one of his pockets and handed the light back to Birkin.

"We should press on."

"What about the guy?" Birkin asked.

"What about him?"

"Do we leave him here?"

Wesker clapped him on the shoulder in passing. "Feel free to carry him along, William."

"What about the thing that killed him?"

"Hope that it won't get us. Come on. Let's go."

So they went on, but Birkin couldn't ignore the lurch in his stomach. Wesker had only secured a screwdriver off the corpse. What means of defense was a simple screwdriver?

_stick out eyes, puncture windpipes, livers, kidneys_

He shivered, banning all those ideas from his mind. A lot could be done with a screwdriver, alright. He just didn't want to think about it, much less be forced to ever do something like that.

But as things turned out, many of William Birkin's wishes were left unfulfilled that day. Because whatever had gotten to Kato Dubako had no intention of leaving either of them alone(alive).

They continued in temporary ignorance, Birkin's mind still too full of images of both Dubako and Sembe and the horror in Smidt's eyes as he was left on his own. All that made him quiver and block out the here and now until his attention was drawn back to Wesker, who suddenly stopped.

"What's the matter?" Birkin asked.

Wesker didn't answer immediately, scanning the empty area illuminated by the flashlight. "I don't know. Just a gut feeling."

Birkin looked around, but could find nothing more suspicious than stone. Eventually he shrugged his shoulders. "It must be the hit to your head. There's nothing here."

Only, there was. Birkin felt it a second later as it descended from the ceiling with a guttural screech. He opened his mouth to scream, but found he couldn't. His mouth was covered by something and he realized with terror that it wasn't Wesker's warning hand. It was something cold and slimy and as he stumbled backwards a distress bolted through his body.

_oh god_

His hands instinctively shot up to his face and Birkin felt the urge to scream again. It was a muffled moan that left his lips in the end. He could feel damp skin that didn't belong to him, slick, bony structures that could only be legs

_how many –_

But he couldn't finish the thought as he slipped over a stone and lost his balance, clawing at the thing on his face – his fingers dug so deep into jelly skin, that he got goosebumps - in a desperate attempt to stay on his feet. The back of his head suddenly collided with something hard and for a moment Birkin saw stars float before his vision.

The thing on his head gave off a visceral sound and he continued to tear at its body, internally screaming. Whatever it was, it had more than four legs and all of them were slung around his face and neck like unnaturally long fingers, digging into his flesh the more he tried to get them off.

"Hold still!" Wesker's voice resounded somewhere in the distance.

Still? _Still?!_ He could barely breath! One of his hands strived Wesker's and he clawed at the human hand, squeezing with all his might.

"Let go!" Wesker demanded and retracted the limb, continuing in whatever he was doing.

_god, he doesn't understand! I'm going to die! I'm going to die!_

And very suddenly he remembered that he had willingly preferred a death of asphyxiation in favor of anything else. It had been fleeting thought in that moment. Now he felt like crying, wanted to beg whatever deity cared to listen that he couldn't die yet, that it was just too cruel a fate to succumb to.

"Hold still already!" Wesker barked. Birkin could feel his friend's hands inspecting whatever had attached to his face. The thing had gone dead still apart from a basal throb which he suspected was its pulse or breathing. That wasn't a big consolation to Birkin though. He was panicking and with good reason. His heart was trying to make up for the lack of oxygen by increasing in tempo.

"I'm going to try to take it off now. Don't move."

Birkin didn't. He was paralyzed as if someone had injected him with the respective drug. Unconsciously his urge to gasp for air against the slimy surface of the thing faded. He held on to what little oxygen he had.

One of Wesker's hands moved behind his left ear, where one of the thing's clawed fingers had fixed to his skull. He could feel Wesker's hand gripping the appendage. He rattled at it and the moment he did Birkin's own arm shot up to stop him. The more they tried to pull it off, the harder it squeezed. And the harder it squeezed, the more it prevented him from breathing.

He tried to voice a muffled 'no' and Wesker seemed to understand at least the basic message of it.

"Hold out a little longer. I'll search the torch."

Search? Was it lost? He tried to recall when he had dropped it and why Wesker had to search it in the first place. Wasn't it shining light? Had he accidentally broken it? _No, no, please don't let that happen!_

"Shit…"

Shit what? Was it broken? Oh god. He couldn't even open his eyes, let alone see any light. Were they surrounded by darkness again? Perhaps Wesker couldn't even see how disastrous his state was! He moaned in an attempt to attract attention.

"Hold out for just another second… come on, come on…"

Come on, Will? Come on, flashlight? He started to palpate the thing on his head again, trying to get up a mental imagine of what the fuck was hugging on to his face. It was definitely cold, reptilian perhaps, or insect-like with all those legs?

"Will, I'm going to try something else now. I'm going to burn it with my lighter, do you understand? It's crucial that you don't move. It will probably tighten, but it has to let go eventually."

Eventually?! Birkin wanted to protest, but before he could make any understandable action he heard the clicking as Wesker turned on the lighter and soon felt the warmth of the fire below his ear, at one of the legs.

_please let it work…_

But the claws just dug deeper into his skin and Birkin suddenly had a mental flash of Mr Sembe and the worker they had found before, with all the gashes across his face and bleary, bulging eyes sticking out of his skull. Had he died like that in an attempt to free himself?

With a jerk he catapulted the lighter out of Wesker's hand, pausing the thing's assault.

He just couldn't risk it. The thing was like the sword of Damocles hanging above his head. A long, sharpened stick of the best metal in the world. Held up by a single tail-hair, it could rip and fall at any moment, brutally lodging into his skull and taking his life.

He just couldn't allow Wesker to burn his single metaphorical horse-hair.

* * *

**No, this is not a facehugger from a crashed Alien ship. But you'll find out in the next chapter.**


	11. Chapter XI

Chapter XI

If that horrendous thing hadn't hugged so tightly to Birkin's face, Wesker would have slapped him right across his stubborn head.

"The fuck! What is it with you, I'm trying to help!" he hissed, fervently trying to find the lost lighter in the darkness. The flashlight had died on them the moment it had collided with solid stone and thanks to Birkin their only source of light and possible solution to this problem was now gone, too.

He didn't get a reply to his outburst, not that he had expected as much. It didn't take a genius to realize that they were playing against time here, but with Birkin's lack of cooperation one would think that he was absurdly oblivious to his situation. It was only a matter of time until that thing cut off his air supply completely. Death by asphyxiation was one of the most abhorrent ways to end that Wesker could imagine.

In the darkness his fingers suddenly closed in around the familiar cold surface of the metal lighter and a moment later shed a little light on their surroundings.

The thing had six awfully long legs and at the tip of each was a sharp and dirty claw, currently attached to Birkin's face. The skin was dry, hairy in parts, apart from a slimy spot at front and bottom. Wesker couldn't decipher a lot of details, since what he presumed to be the front was turned to his colleague, but it held a striking reappearance to an overgrown spider, despite the inaccuracy in extremities.

_Let's hope the similarities don't stretch as far as poison or reproduction go…_

Because really, the last thing they needed was dealing with an unknown infestation or a peculiar impregnation with some alien larvae.

"You're going to hold still now," he told Birkin and the tone in his voice indicated that he wouldn't tolerate another outburst.

Bringing the flaming lighter close to one of the thing's hairy legs, Wesker smelt the stench of burning hair and bubbling skin immediately. As a reaction to the pain it undoubtedly felt, the creature clawed deeper into its victim's face and he could hear a muffled moan from underneath its body.

Wesker continued, but his colleague's hand soon wrapped around his arm and pushed him away again, this time more gently. He thought he discerned a croaked 'please' and momentarily halted in his actions. The dirty claws of each leg had dug into Birkin's flesh, drawing small rivulets of blood from its owner.

Shit. They weren't going to get far like this.

Fire didn't seem to impress the creature a great deal and plunging the screwdriver right into his friend's face was the last alternative Wesker liked to consider. There had to be something else they could do.

He grabbed the dysfunctional flashlight again and tried the switch, but his surroundings remained dark. How would the thing react to brute force? What if he rammed the butt of the torch into its body. Would it let go or only latch on tighter? And more importantly, would it do any harm at all other than risking Birkin a broken nose?

He didn't get to find out as Birkin's hand suddenly gripped his own and guided it to one of his pockets. Wesker resisted the urge to pull back, not yet understanding what the other man was up to. Birkin placed his hand on the pocket of the labcoat and Wesker could feel an item through the fabric. When Birkin's hold losened Wesker reached for the object.

_What the…_

And immediately froze as he recognized its shape. It was the little knife he had found on the corpse along with the journal. But hadn't his so called friend claimed that it must have been lost during the fall?

He refrained from questioning this little detail. Birkin couldn't give him an answernow , not willingly and not forced.

So for the moment he concentrated on the task at hand. With the lighter's small flame, the old blade gleamed orange and Wesker positioned it under one of the creature's legs. Taking a deep breath, he sent a last prayer to whoever cared and hoped that the thing's blood wasn't poisonous.

Although Birkin couldn't see what was going on, Wesker could feel him brace himself for whatever was to come.

_Now or never…_

In one swift sweeping motion Wesker pulled the knife up and its rusty edge cut deep into the creature's flesh. It squealed, Birkin twiched on the ground and in the frenzy Wesker managed to take hold of the injured appendage.

He tore it from Birkin's face with force and twisted it until a sickening crack filled the air and the limb's resistance suddenly disappeared.

The thing screamed in agony and seemed to claw even deeper into the blond man's skull. Now Birkin tried to push him away, but Wesker kept his stance. He repeated the same process on another leg, drawing more wailing from the creature and muffled moans from William.

When he began to cut at the third extremity, the creature's lug losened and with a combined effort they managed to catapult it a few feet away.

Beside him Birkin wheezed for air, but Wesker couldn't stay to enquire the researcher's condition. Knife raised, he leaped at the squirming thing and stabbed the steel blade right into the middle of the bloated body. There was a final, ear-piercing screech, then the thing collapsed and moved no more.

"Holy mother of God," Birkin croaked.

"A quite unfitting description, don't you think?"

"What the Hell is that?"

Wesker crouched beside the body and held the lighter close to it. He couldn't discern a head or face. There was a structure that could apply as the creature's mouth, but that was only a guess. The six legs lay slack on the ground, two of them bleeding and twisted at unnatural angles. It was a little disproportioned, but he could still relate it to a spider at best.

"Whatever it is, it's dead now." he assessed bluntly.

"I've never seen an insect this big."

"No?" Wesker asked and reverted back to fixing the flashlight. Or at least, attempting to. "I think I have. And I think you have too."

"What?"

"Don't you remember Dr Marcus' PlCr-938 program?"

"The Plague Crawlers…?"

"Your everyday bug infected with T. Immense growth, aggression, and sudden production of poisonous sputum."

"You don't think…" Birkin seemed to catch on to what he was hinting at.

"Why not?" Wesker asked and tipped the switch on the flashlight. Out of darkness came light. He couldn't keep a smug grin from his face. One of the battery contacts must have malfunctioned. After taking them out and putting them back in, the thing worked as if just taken off the store rack.

Focusing his attention back to his companion he mused, "Is it too far fetched to assume that this insect came into contact with Progenitor?"

Birkin grimaced and rubbed at his sore cheek. Drops of blood trailed down from the six punctuation wounds on his face, but they were starting to clot already.

As if reading his mind Wesker said, "I think it transfers only through bodily fluids. And this is no more than a guess at best. For all we know, this could be an undetected species that has lived here for millennia."

"Well then I hope you just eradicated the last of its kind."

It was a poor guess, but better a consolation than the thought of having to deal with more of these monsters. Once they got out of here Wesker would personally send a reconnaissance troop down into these caverns to retrieve the bodies of the dead workers… and that of the giant spider.

"I wonder if your archeologist stumbled across these beings in his explorations," Birkin thought out loud.

Wesker didn't know an answer to that - mentally cursed himself for not paying closer attention to the reason of death - but slowly turned around to Birkin nonetheless. The mention of that particular corpse brought a more relevant topic back up.

Before Birkin could even make a move to defend himself Wesker's fist connected hard with the man's face, sending him flailing backwards.

_"Fuck!"_ he yelled, his hands shooting up to cover his mouth and nose. Wesker had landed a precise punch.

"Have you lost your mind?!" Birkin cried hysterically.

"Me? Not at all," Wesker reasoned, holding up the now crimson stained pocket knife. The artificial glow lent it a sinister bearing.

"_I_ am in perfect mental condition," he said, rage bubbling in his voice. "But I fear the same cannot be said about you. Have _you_ lost your mind, William?"

The pain suddenly forgotten, Birkin's features took on terror-stricken mannerism. His body tensed and the hand that wasn't clawed around the flashlight periodically formed a loose fist. It was one of his old habits when he became stressed.

"I…"

"You what? Suffered a temporary case of amnesia when I asked you if you had seen a small pocket knife the form and size of _this_ one?"

"You don't understand-"

"Truly, I do not," Wesker interrupted flatly, taking a menacing step closer to his so called friend. He played with the knife demonstratively, folding it in and folding it out. The metallic click clack sent a visible shiver through the man in front of him every time. Birkin was so concentrated on the knife, Wesker wouldn't have been all that surprised if the man's eyes suddenly bobbed out of their sockets with all the strain they were forced to.

"You lie to me one more time, William," he hissed and flipped the blade back closed. "One more time…" Gracefully, the knife slipped into one of his pockets; its rightful place. "You'll wish I never saved you in the first place."

Birkin gave him an almost automated nod, but dared not move out of his paralysis. The warning had effectively sunk in, it seemed.

Lowering his voice back to a normal tone, Wesker spoke as if nothing had happened.

"We should press on. Come."


	12. Chapter XII

Chapter XII

It had felt like a cold splash to the face, a rough awakening to reality. Now, with a likely broken nose Birkin was able to draw upon one of men's greatest skills: logical thought. What had seemed absurd before presented itself in form of hard facts now. Likewise, what he had thought to be a sensible action before seemed utterly irrational now.

Pain worked wonders.

He palpated his offended nose, wiping some snot and blood from under it. Wesker had landed quite a punch. And had effectively rattled his brains back into working order with that.

Right now the man in question walked in front of him, having confiscated all that had been so dear to Birkin a moment ago. Flashlight, knife, screwdriver, lighter. In the illumination of the torch Wesker was the proverbial beacon of hope. And his only chance to survive.

Taking the knife had been a very stupid act, some falsely-shifted reflex of survival. Birkin didn't try to find an excuse for it. Drowning victims were witnessed to force their rescuers underwater in a mad attempt to stay afloat. It was as it was. He had done nothing wrong.

_The urge to survive is no crime._

Cautiously he traced a fingertip over the side of his cheek. Apart from beginning stubbles he felt a burning little claw mark, about half the size of his thumb. It was one of six that currently adorned his face. None were deep or large enough to be of concern, but that was only half of it. It took no more than an abrasion to create an entrance possibility for germs, bacteria and viruses.

_And if Albert is right…_

If a simple catterpilar could turn into human-sized monster under the influence of T, what hindered a small house spider to grow ten times its size after being exposed to God knew what substance? What if that substance was this primitive form of Progenitor? What if, like all variants of this virus, it was transmissible through bodily fluids?

What if he was _infected?_

The word alone was so abhorrent that he could hardly think it to the end and a shiver bolted down his spine. He better stop musing about such things, lest they become true. He thought he had been surrounded by idiots in the company of Smith and Sembe – now they were gone. He thought a death by asphyxiation was milder than being ripped apart limb by limb – he had experienced the feeling on his own body. He had to stop thinking about the possibilities of infection – or they might very soon come true.

"Hey…" he said instant, drawing out the word. "Sorry for everything… it shook me out of my trance, that thing there."

If Wesker heard, he didn't make an attempt to reply.

Shrugging, Birkin continued. "Thanks for saving my life, anyway."

Wesker said nothing and Birkin let the silence overtake them again, only the sound of their footfalls breaking the peace. That, and the pounding in both his head and heart. Hopefully he had gotten away with only a good scare and nothing else.

As they walked his hand found itself in one of his coat pockets and he felt the rough surface of the leather clad book inside. And almost instantly he saw the pages before his mind's eye. The notes on geology, the recordings on the Ndypaya tribe with their rituals and folkways.

Before him Wesker suddenly skidded to a halt. Birkin peered over the other man's shoulder and his eyes fixed on the little illuminated patch on the wall. With every second he stared longer, his eyes grew wider.

There was another X.

And below it:

THIS WAY

in very shaky, forced carving. Wesker trailed a finger along the rugged stone, tracing every crude letter as if wanting to assure that it really was there.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Birkin asked, his voice resonating eerily in the empty corridor.

Wesker examined the markings a little longer before talking.

"This way…," he repeated eventually and looked expectantly into the black tunnel ahead.

"I guessed as much, you know," Birkin retorted and pursed his lips, wondering what exactly this had to mean. Why had the person who wrote this bothered with actual words? The X would have been enough of a hint. But why a marking anyway? They were in the middle of a straight corridor, with no options to go left or right, or take a wrong path. Considering that, the notice seemed superfluous to Birkin.

"Let's press on," Wesker suggested. "We can wonder about this once we're out of here."

Birkin couldn't agree more to that. They set off and for a while there were no more signs on the walls, no misleading forkings and no face-hugging giant spiders. The monotony of black stone mixed with dark grey rock returned.

Only the silence, that didn't accompany them for long.

It was suddenly broken by a high-pitched ululating cry coming from far up ahead in the tunnel and both men braked like they had just clashed into an invisible wall (of fear). With the experience of what that voice could belong to and the additional imagination to embellish the picture, Birkin's heart rate doubled within a split second.

Wesker stood so motionless as if he had been fossilized and Birkin couldn't even see a twitch that could indicate breathing.

In a whisper that barely surmounted the silence, his companion and long time friend assessed the situation with the perfect word.

"Back."

They didn't turn around to run like headless chickens, although Birkin felt the impulse. They took small, careful steps backwards, pointing the torch into the direction the cry had come from. Whether it had been human or not Birkin couldn't tell. If it was not a monster then it was one of the workers, and if a worker screamed that way it could only mean that something else – something predatory and silent – had gotten him and ripped him to pieces. Either way, it was not in their favor.

There was another moment of silence. Then they heard heavy steps, like a giant pacing through a much too tight passage. It was approaching.

Birkin found himself taking in a defensive stance behind Wesker, preparing for the worst. The flashlight's beam only illuminated so much of the way ahead, dipping their potential enemy into a mantle of blackness.

Wesker retraced the pocket knife and its blade gleamed protectively in the neon light.

"Oh God…" it escaped Birkin, when desperation reached its peak.

But it wasn't God emerging from the shadows.

Its body was human in form but enormous in size, taller than any basketball player, its shoulders scraping along the walls. In one massive hand it held a spear-like stick, adorned with diverse morbid decorations he didn't even want to know the origins to.

But neither the many scars and open gashes along its body were what eventually unleashed the scream from Birkin's throat. It was the head, demonic like that of ghoul, that let the blood freeze in his veins.

Blood stained feathers, two great and dangerous tusks, an ivory colored stripped skull that had no resemblance at all to a human or any other living being Birkin knew. He couldn't see eyes or mouth, or any other facial feature, but there was no time to search for that.

The demon let out another feral howl and threateningly raised the spear high into the air, so that its tip scraped across the ceiling of the tunnel.

Wesker was already pushing him back as Birkin still stared, half fascinated - half paralysed, how the monster tensed its muscles and prepared itself for a leap.

What happened next was a blur.

The spear jerked, their enemy's bellowing was joined by both Birkin's and Wesker's screams, and the flashlight cast bizarre shadows on the wall in a grotesque retelling of the events that were about to follow.

The demon was upon them in no less than a rushed heartbeat. It dispensed with Wesker, effortlessly flinging him into the darkness' starving maw. Then the massive hand came for Birkin and the deadly spear was pointed right at his heart.

He screamed even louder, trashed and wriggled, biting, scratching – _stabbing at eyes, livers, kidneys, had I only have the tools!_ – in a futile attempt to ring free of the iron grip.

Wesker suddenly jumped back into the light, the blade of the pocket knife glinting in his hand. Seconds later it dug deep into the demon's forearm and a wave of gushing blood sprung forward, begriming Birkin's face.

The giant let out a strangled yelp, but Wesker's attack succeeded in its intention. At least, in the basic sense. Birkin's eyes widened as he felt the air around him move and he panicked as he realized that _he was moving around in the air_, and not otherwise. A moment later the grip around his throat disappeared and he connected hard with one solid stone wall.

The impact stole the air from his lungs like a thief a coveted treasure and with his throat swelling from the abuse it was almost impossible to fill his body with oxygen.

The involuntary flight had sent him out of the flashlight's range and in his air-deprived mind Wesker and the demon had shrunk to two dots in the distance, spectacularly illuminated in a play of light and shadow.

One thing was clear in this overdimensional puppet theatre. Wesker didn't have the ghost of a chance. With its monstrous tusks it threw the man off his feet and Wesker's small knife was no match at all for the hulk's long spear.

As soon as Wesker started screaming in the pain he undoubtedly felt Birkin was already clambering back to his feet, racing at the opponents in a mad sprint. He cried with terror and fear and as he leaped onto the demon's back realized that he had no plan how to keep the monster away from his friend.

Punching desperately into the monster's back – its headdress was made of a too solid material to break – he yelled curses and pleas for this madness to finish.

They were unheard.

The demon grabbed him as if he were nothing more than a nuisance and slammed him against the ground with an angry growl. This time it was Birkin's head that made contact with the floor first and for the next few moments he saw stars before his eyes.

When he regained his senses Wesker had taken up the fight again, trying to stab a wound into their enemy.

Crawling on all fours, Birkin moaned as the world started rotating, swimming in and out of focus. Little stones dug into the balls of his palms, particles of dirt catching under his broken fingernails.

Suddenly his hand enclosed around an object and with hazy eyes and a wicked sense of hope he picked the screwdriver off the ground.

Getting to his feet he bolted towards the battle with grim determination to sink his new weapon deep into enemy flesh.

Because one thing had just become very clear.

The thing before them was no monster and no demon and nothing of that sort.

It was the Devil and he had come to take them both to Hell.

**

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Virtual cookies to the ones who figured out what our heroes are facing.**

**On another note, it is a shame that this site doesn't allow special fonts or pictures. I had planned a lot in terms of wall-scratchings, but they just dont come across as well in Arial 10 as they do in some shaky, terrified handwriting font. I might make a special PDF-edition with extra content later on.**

**Also, please accept my apologies for the lack of personal review replies lately! Pre-christmas stress, something that will not occur again until next year - and by that time I'm dearly hoping to have this story finished!**

**Until next time, when we will take the elevator down to level HORROR 2.**


	13. Chapter XIII

**I wanted to upload this two days ago, but the internet at the hotel was broken... they finally fixed it. This chapter was inspired by the Cenotes (amazing underground caves) of Mexico, which gave me a lot of ideas for future story content. So I'd like to announce that I'll be adding a few more HORROR levels for you to enjoy than initially planned. If you have any ideas, wishes, critiques of what you'd like to see in the future, let me know! And now, enjoy. ;)**

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Chapter XIII

Birkin ran, in some back part of his mind knowing that his assault would be stopped with ease, and as punishment he would be ripped in two like a simple toothpick ready to be discarded. But the screwdriver in his hand transformed into a long, sharp sword in his mind and as he dug the metal deep into the Devil's unprotected back he could hear their enemy roar and twist in anger and pain.

Wesker, who had somehow managed to stay alive, gestured wildly down the corridor.

"Run!" he screamed to overpower the creature's wails and Birkin needed no more motivation.

Leaving the screwdriver stuck in the monster's back, he swept up the flashlight in his sprint and from one moment to the other it was just him and the cave, everything around him swallowed by the hungry darkness. He could hear Wesker's labored breathing and heavy steps at a distance behind him, but Birkin was too caught up in his panic to turn around and check for sure.

An ululating screech penetrated the tunnel and his heart and legs pumped one level harder. The way ahead was a bizarre constellation of beginning stalactites and uneven ground, making him stumble more than actually run.

"Go!" Wesker urged from behind and if Birkin hadn't been so afraid for his life, he might have noticed the undertone of desperation in his friend's voice. "It's coming!"

And it came indeed.

Wesker's next warning drowned in a half-swallowed cry and Birkin heard the impact of flesh and stone behind him. Tears of exhaustion rimmed his eyes as he tried to coax his body into greater speed, not wanting to succumb to the same horrible fate Wesker must have fallen victim to.

But Death's hand reached out farther than one might think and Birkin's scream remained trapped in his throat as thick, dirty fingers enclosed around his head, pressing with such force that his skull had to explode at any given moment.

He stumbled and fell, not fully hitting the ground as the owner of the hand lifted him up into the air, like it was scrutinizing its future trophy before killing it. Birkin couldn't see a thing, blindly trashing about, digging his nails into mouldy skin that seemed to feel no pain. He drew long gashes on the enemy arm, sinking his fingers into warm blood but there was no reaction from his opponent.

He tried to call out for help but there was no air to form the words with. His enemy's grasp tightened a little more and brought a whimper to Birkin's lips.

_it's got to break! it's got to break…. in just one second it's gonna crack!…_

He started to cry hit by an odd sense of religion. Even though Birkin had never believed in God or any other deity he found himself praying to be forgiven, cowardly hoping for a quick death, for the pain and fear to finally go away.

He stopped clawing at the enemy hand, giving the Devil his permission to crush his skull and open the gates to Hell.

But instead of that he was rewarded with another wave of agony as his body rammed into the jagged ceiling and then the ground. He was left breathless as what remaining air he had was kicked out of his lungs, wiggling on the floor like a blind worm until the blood returned to his limbs and he could start crawling away from the danger.

With his body on fire Birkin hurried, disorientated and not really knowing where he went in the darkness. The flashlight was somewhere on the floor, but it was too busy illuminating the monster in all its terryfing glory to light up a possible escape route for those who needed it. He scratched his palms and knees on the rough ground, drawing hot and stinking blood that mixed with the dirt and stung all the way up to his spine. But that was a small price to pay if it was the only requirement to escape this hellhole alive.

A hand suddenly gripped into the back of his labcoat and Birkin almost screamed in terror at what was to come. But it wasn't the Devil's hand.

It was Wesker, who must have at some point reclaimed the torch and was pushing Birkin back to his feet with all his force.

"Run!" he said again, the word so slurred this time that even Birkin noticed the difference.

He did as commanded, taking the offered flashlight from his friend and starting down the corridor again. With Wesker pushing from behind and the Devil close on their heels he ran almost blindly, not possessing the calmness to keep a straight beam of light.

More and more claws seemed to grow out of the walls, stalactites dropping from the ceiling and little stalagmites pinching into the heels of his shoes. The climate of the cave was changing, a fact that currently interested Birkin as much as biochemistry interested a tame house dog.

What he did notice though, on the edge of his perception, was that the air that burned in his lungs grew heavier. It lost the chilly touch it had held before, changing it for a warmer and damper atmosphere.

_the way out the EXIT god let it be_

The next step he took ended in a splash and after another few follow ups Birkin realized that they were running in water, not higher than ankle-deep, but cold and wet nonetheless. The monster behind them was hardly impressed, Wesker didn't notice or didn't care, and Birkin couldn't have stopped running now even if he had wanted to.

The splatter turned to splashing and the shaky torch reflected off the water surface on the ground, disorienting Birkin more than he already was.

This went on for another few meters, both of them having to watch their heads from knocking them against the uneven ceiling and not stepping into one of the many little stalagmites growing from the ground.

Then there was a quite abrupt, unwilling halt. While the water hadn't risen considerably until now (it reached a little above his ankles, if at all) Birkin's next step never touched ground.

He heard himself shriek as first his leg and then his entire body connected with the surface of the water and before he could inhale he found himself underwater completely, paddling desperately to get back up again.

Just as he thought he could break through to the surface, something heavy came from above and pushed him back under. He got entangled in Wesker's labcoat, pushed and pulled, earned a slap and delivered a kick, before finally being able to take a lungful of air.

Before he could orientate to his new surroundings, Wesker dragged him back down again and began to wrestle.

_what the-_

He didn't get to list all the possible reasons why his companion might have temporarily lost his mind, because Wesker obtained what he wanted and tore the still burning flashlight out of Birkin's hand. Just before he pushed the OFF switch he placed a finger in front of his mouth, bubbles of oxygen escaping his lips. A last desperate attempt to escape Death's clutches.

Then it was dark. An underwater tomb.

Birkin held his breath until his lungs dreaded to explode. When he couldn't resist any longer he swam to the surface, not caring about Devils and Hells as he took a hearty gulp of air. Wesker surfaced behind him and immediately slang a hand over Birkin's mouth, _shhhing_ quietly into his ear.

They both reduced their floating movements to a minimum, waiting for the darkness to sink its rotten teeth into their hearts. None of that happened.

The water was upset by their fall, clashing against the shore angrily. It was the perfect distraction to hide the inevitable sound their swimming made and certainly a good confusion for their foe. In this myriad of sounds it would be impossible for the monster to locate them without the treacherous light of the torch.

Birkin didn't know whether the monster could see in this total blackness, but he hoped that it was just as blind as them. As far as he was concerned he couldn't see a single thing, not the surface of the water, not his own hands moving underneath and certainly not the Devil following them.

They stayed like that for what seemed to Birkin like an eternity. His fingers and toes were numb and his mind paralyzed by fear. What eventually woke him from his trance was the rattling of wood and metal pieces against eachother, and symmetric thumps that progressively faded away into the gurgle of the water.

The Devil was retreating.

Wesker didn't let go of his mouth for another minute. Then, when Birkin finally had the freedom to speak, the only thing he managed to bring out was a clattering sigh.

Beside him Wesker moved in the water and procured the flashlight. Surprisingly it worked on the second try. The scenery it illuminated for them was simply breathtaking, something Birkin hadn't seen in his entire life, in books or on TV.

The small tunnel they had spent their last few hours in had suddenly turned into a giant, flooded cavern. Like a bizarre underground sea, that held a strange kind of beauty amidst all of its grotesqueness. Mighty stalactites dropped from the ceiling, like sharp rock fangs of some fearsome alien creature. The flashlight illuminated only a small spot of what could be miles and miles of brute stone structure.

Around them the water formed a black surface, not giving away how deep the cave stretched beneath them. Birkin tried to peer through the delusive reflections of the water, but he couldn't even see the continuation of his labcoat.

As he raised a hand out of the water and it entered the rage of light of the torch, Birkin's eyes grew wide. He pulled the hand back down, then back up into the light. His first assumption didn't change. What had been on his hand hadn't washed off with water. Because the liquid on his skin and all around them _wasn't_ water.

_what the fuck?!_

His heart began to race and he tried to make out the consistency of what they were swimming in, coming to a grim realization. He turned around to Wesker, whose features seemed oddly distorted in the flamboyant light.

"It's not water, Albert…" he muttered, suddenly overcome by the urge to get out as fast as he could. "We're not swimming in water…"

_but how_

"It's blood..." he whispered, almost afraid to voice the word.

He looked at Wesker for a confirmation, for an equally shocked expression, but what mirrored on the other man's face could not be described as surprise.

"I know," he said and for the first time Birkin picked up the tension in his voice.

"It's mine."


	14. Chapter XIV

Chapter XIV

They had climbed to a higher level, out of the water and on to a stone platform that was located close to what Wesker had come to refer as the entrance, the tunnel they had originally come from. It was almost impossible to guess the true size or form of the hall they now were in.

Beside him Birkin clambered out of the water, collapsing on the cold rock with a long, exhausted sigh. The labcoat clung to his body like a wrinkly second skin and the blonde hair only underlined the paleness of his skin. He panted heavily, still out of breath from their spontaneous swimming trip.

_It's not like you're much better_, a voice in his head opined and Wesker was forced to agree. The struggle back in the tunnel had cost him most of his power. And that in turn brought consequences with it. As soon as he had lost the flashlight, the little control he thought he had disappeared too. With the enemy twice their size and at least four times as powerful it was only a matter of time until something went wrong.

Wesker gritted his teeth against the hard throb in his leg, deliberately avoiding to look down. He hadn't gotten a proper look yet, too busy on running and surviving. The unexpected fall into the chilling water had dulled the pain, numbing his whole body. But as soon as the adrenaline and shock passed he knew he would clash right into a wall of pain, face first.

Beside him Birkin grabbed the flashlight, scanning their immediate surroundings. When he was done with that he turned to Wesker and the man hissed as he was momentarily blinded by the torch.

"Oh fuck," Birkin said next and crept closer, inspecting what Wesker dreaded to look at. "Oh fuck, that's bad."

He decided that ignoring it any longer was no realistic option, then stared at his right leg. It was hard to make out the exact gravity of the wound with the black trouser being wet. There was no distinction between bloodstain and water. Not that that was necessary to judge the basics. The creature had used its spear to attack him and a good part of it was still lodged in his leg.

"Sticks out on both ends," Birkin noted, observing the wooden stick closer. "This is a mess. You're bleeding like a pig."

New blood was starting to seep from the wound, some of it soaking with the fabric around it, the rest simply flowing down and hitting the ground in big, crimson drops.

As much as it hadn't hurt before, it did now. Ever since he had actually laid eyes on it, Wesker thought he could feel the wood grinding against his flesh and the involuntary spasms of his muscles in protest of the current situation. Reflexively he moved his toes and immediately regretted it, grunting in agony. God, the stick _moved_.

"Hey," Birkin said and Wesker blinked, looking up. His colleague had taken off the labcoat and was now working on the belt buckle. Concern mirrored in his red rimmed eyes.

"I'm gonna fix you up, alright?"

He nodded weakly, all the adrenaline from before gone, only to be replaced with less welcome weariness. A bolt of anger rose and he scolded himself, shaking his head to keep the daze away from his mind. Birkin's hand on his shoulder let him shudder and he looked at the other man with wide eyes, internally fighting a battle against himself.

_get a grip get a goddamn grip_

The pressure on his shoulder intensified and he realized that he was resisting against Birkin pushing him on his back. He complied eventually, feeling the rugged stone under his back. The cool surface brought back a little clarity, but it was not of the sort that lasted.

Birkin explained how he was going to try and fix it but Wesker found it impossible to pay attention, the thudding of his heart suddenly too loud and too fast to ignore. He started to feel the chill of the cave, the skin beneath his clothes throwing goosebumps.

Birkin pinched him in the shoulder and lent over him worriedly. "Hey, don't you doze off on me there, will you?"

Wesker croaked a "No" and shook his head, but was deeply disappointed by his performance. What a sag. He had to get back on track and fast.

Birkin turned the lower part of his labcoat into stripes, cutting them with the now bloody pocket knife. He made four makeshift bandages and set the flashlight in such a position that it illuminated the wound well. Then he turned to Wesker once more.

"This is going to hurt. I'll do my best to be quick, you do your best to stay still."

Wesker took a shaky breath and nodded in confirmation. He formed a fist and clenched his teeth against what was to come, then gave Birkin the go ahead to start working.

He didn't even feel a lot. Of course there was pain, but that soon blended with the cold and bloodloss. It was like a cocktail of terror and he was forced to down it all in one big gulp. At least Birkin had the grace to keep his promise and work fast and effectively. In the end Wesker's whole leg was throbbing with an intensity that blocked out all other sensations. Only when his friend lent over him again and said something did he know it was over. The pain remained, adamant.

"How many fingers?" Birkin asked and held up three.

Wesker answered correctly. Then he took all of his power and propped himself up on his elbows at first, and with a little support into a sitting position. He didn't look at his leg, focusing on the man beside him instead. He tried to keep his teeth from clattering as he spoke. "We should go."

Birkin's expression sank. "Where? I don't know. This could be a dead end."

Wesker snorted. It wasn't a dead end, it was _THIS WAY_, hadn't his partner read that before? And the creature with the tusks and broken spear had to come from somewhere. This was not a dead end, this was merely the entrance and now they had to find the exit.

"We have to go," Wesker repeated, not able to put his thoughts into more complicated words.

Birkin seemed to think this over, then stood up and put his now distinctly shorter labcoat back on.

"Stay here, I'm going to see where we can go."

He took the flashlight and soon turned into a little bulb of light amidst the darkness, reminding Wesker of a lost firefly.

He slowly crawled to the edge of the platform, sinking his feet into the water. A shiver ran down his spine and he was awfully cold, but the numbness working its way up his body seemed to take some of the pain away, at least for the moment.

A flash of concern came to his mind and he tried to look through the darkness into the water. It was like trying to look on the other side of a thick brick wall. Until now he hadn't considered the possibility of this water being a habitat for animals, and part of those animals to be predators. He pondered taking his legs out again, then decided against it. At one point they'd have to cross the pond anyway, If there was something inside the water that wanted to eat them, then he better saw it now than when he'd be up in it to his ears.

Birkin returned soon after that and pointed into the direction he came from.

"There might be a way, but I'm not sure. I didn't want to go too far in case I got lost. Do you think you can walk?"

Wesker swung his legs out of the water and held out a hand. Birkin pulled him up and he tentatively shifted some weight on his injured leg. It hurt like hell, but there were no alternatives. He took one full step, his lips turning into a thin line.

As small as the exertion had been, he could already feel warm blood trickle down the back of his knee, causing a tickling sensation against the numbness he had acquired in the water.

"How is it?" Birkin enquired.

"As if my leg was impaled," Wesker mumbled, not trying to hide the sarcasm. It was such a typical habit for him. If he didn't feel well, or was in a particularly bad mood he tended to get sarcastic. "I can go," he said, "Come on."

Birkin was hesitant to accept this answer, but started to walk beside him eyeing him up and down every other minute.

It wasn't long until they reached the end of the platform. First there was only ankle-deep water and they could trudge on some more; but the stone underwater was slippery and Birkin was forced to give Wesker a hand in support. This didn't go on for long.

Birkin had taken the lead, groping his way carefully through the water. They couldn't see a lot beneath the surface with the light reflecting off the liquid. At one point Birkin sank in to his knees and gestured to Wesker to stay where he was. He took two more careful steps; on the third he lost his footing and was forced to paddle back.

"This ends here. We'll have to swim."

"Swim where?" Wesker asked, not in the least inspired to follow suit. It was one thing if they just had to cross a distance from A to B, but if swimming referred to simply swimming around until they found something to climb on by accident, then he was out of it. He could barely walk. Swimming was one level closer to impossible.

Birkin scanned their imminent range with the torch, but came up empty.

"We have to try," he suggested.

"Try what? And where? This cavern is huge. If we swim too far, we might loose orientation. We'll get lost and either drown or starve." _Or bleed out drop by drop_, he added in his head.

"I'll go," Birkin said resolutely.

"_Where?_ You don't even know if there is a way out of here."

"I'll try to find one. You can wait here."

"And you take the flashlight, I presume?" he snorted, "And leave me here in the darkness. Alone. How do you want to find your way back?"

"You can call me. I'll hear you."

Wesker laughed hollowly. "Oh yes, you will, genius. Sound echoes off the walls. You'll hear me _all around._"

This brought a momentary break to Birkin's plans, but not a minute later he seemed to have another idea.

"Do you still have the lighter?"

Wesker pulled it out of his pocket. It was dripping wet and he shook it to get rid of the excess water. Then he clicked it open and tried the ignition. Not even a spark. He attempted it three more times, without success.

"Too wet," he acknowledged at last.

"Let me try," Birkin said, but could perform no more magic than Wesker. No flame. He handed it back to Wesker, who took it with a sigh. He tried it one last time.

"There!" Birkin cried.

A spark.

Wesker inhaled deeply, as if lighting up a zippo required a large amount of concentration. It lit on the second attempt. He could feel the warmth of the fire on his fingertips immediately.

Beside him Birkin broke out in joy. "Lucky!" It was strange how such a mundane task could affect a person so much, if the necessary parameters were given.

Despite the throbbing in his leg he couldn't hide a small smile as he clicked the lighter closed. They had succeeded, there was no need to consume precious gas.

"Now it works," Birkin said happily.

"What works?"

"My plan," his friend said. "I'm going to take a swim and you'll wait here. If I do find a way, you can have my torch as guide to follow me. If I don't, I can return using the fire of the lighter as direction. This way we shouldn't get lost."

Wesker thought it over for a moment and came to the decision that he wasn't fond of the plan. There were too many risks involved and the fact that he'd be left behind with no means to defend himself was a matter that simply went straight against survival instinct.

The only problem was that he didn't have an idea of how to make it better. Once more, he could find no alternatives.

Eventually he agreed grimly. "Okay."

Birkin nodded and let himself down into the water. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck."

Then he was gone, first a sillhouette, then only a moving something illuminated by a dot of light.

_A little firefly._

Wesker sat down in the ankle-deep water, shivering as more of the cold liquid soaked through his clothes. Not that it mattered a lot. Sooner or later he had to get in completely anyway. And at least in a sitting position he could take away some of the stress off his leg.

Birkin was gone for what could be either two minutes or half an hour before his voice echoed through the cavern from somewhere in the distance.

"I found something! Come over. Can you see the torch?"

Wesker narrowed his eyes, but had lost the bulb of light out of sight a few moments ago.

"No," he answered flatly, a little panic rising in his chest despite his best efforts to keep it down.

Seconds later the firefly was back.

"Now I can see it," Wesker called over. But even though he could see the light, it was impossible to judge what distance it was away. And that, especially given his current state, was a crucial factor he had to be aware of.

"How far is it?"

"A few meters…" Birkin said, but wasn't sure. "Probably around a hundred. Can you do that?"

"I'll have to."

He didn't wait for a reply, letting himself slip into the deeper water in one swift movement. The icy liquid enclosing him made his teeth clatter at once and although it seemed to reduce the throb in his leg, it also seemed to slow down his mind. He had to cross the water quickly.

Swimming turned out to be easier than he thought. He didn't use the injured leg, dragging it along while he used his arms and other leg to keep himself afloat. All accidental movements hurt, but there was little he could do about that. It wasn't like he could stop to take a pause.

Birkin's torch came closer and a few minutes later, so did the man as a whole. He was waiting on some kind of shore, similar to the one they'd been on before. Apart from that Wesker couldn't make out much else. His friend helped him out of the water and he took a moment to sit down and try to stop himself from shivering. The leg throbbed harder.

They waited two minutes until Wesker was ready to go and with a helping hand from his companion they got him to his feet and continued. There was indeed a way – _THIS WAY?_ – and it looked strikingly similar to the tunnel they had originally came from. It wasn't that of course, because that was somewhere on the other side of the underground lake.

The tunnel's dimensions allowed them to walk beside each other, much to Wesker's liking who treasured Birkin's aid more than he let show. Soon they reached a forking, with two possible continuations.

The flashlight was the key to salvation. On the wall in between the two paths was another X. The cryptic carving beneath it left no doubt as to which direction they had to heed into. Wesker decided not to challenge its meaning, though. The question why the carver had to use words instead of a simple arrow was something to ask himself after a warm dinner and a good night's sleep. Now he was far too tired.

_take the right way_

So they did.

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**Yes, no major action in this chapter, this was a filler and yet still the longest in the terms of length so far. Excuse Wesker's somewhat confused and odd behaviour and thoughts. The poor guy has just been stabbed in the leg, let's allow him a bit of OOCness. We shall return him to his normal state before the end of this story.**

**And now, a little reader input (yes, that's you!). Do you remember the corpse Wesker found in the beginning, the one with the journal? This dear archeologist doesn't have a name yet and I thought that instead counseling a name generator, I'd leave his name up to you. Simply include a suggestion in your review or a PM and I'll pick one by random. **

**Until next time!**


	15. Chapter XV

Chapter XV

Birkin kept glancing back every two seconds and the thought circling in his head was the same all the time:

_This is not good._

In a less eloquent way he'd say that they were fucked beyond repair. The Devil hadn't been so much of a problem. The cave neither. The water, no obstacle. The unnerving carvings on the walls, no problem. But behind him Wesker left a trail of life on the stony ground.

The man hadn't said a word in the past twenty minutes. It wasn't unusual for Wesker to be silent, but with circumstances such as these Birkin couldn't help but worry. His colleague might be stoic and calm about his injury, but that had more reasons than simple self-control. He was still in a state of shock, his body switched on to a high-danger mode that initiated all systems to fire up for maximum survival.

That was why Birkin didn't slow down or stop like he would have liked to. If they rested now Wesker's adrenaline would fade and the chances that he managed to get that back and not succumb to the pain he inevitably felt were slim. Birkin wanted to get as far as possible.

Behind him his friend's steps were heavy and uneven, his labored breathing echoing off the walls. He wondered how much longer they could press on before he would have to change the makeshift compress he had created earlier. With the material wet from the beginning, it had given only little help to staunch the blood and it was crucial to renew the bandages before the knots became slippery and allowed even more blood to seep through. He had placed his belt around the dressing to give a little more support, but he doubted it would do an long-term job.

The spear had luckily missed Wesker's bone – the only reason why he was still able to walk. Birkin hoped it had also missed any of the major arteries running in that region – that was the reason why he had decided to leave the broken stick where it was. Whatever structures it had damaged, it was keeping them in place, serving as a placeholder. If it was removed it would leave a hole behind and with no medical equipment such a wound was impossible to treat.

In the darkness Wesker stumbled behind him and Birkin turned the flashlight on his friend.

"Are you alright?"

Wesker looked anything but, his skin having taken on a ghoulish grey color, the dampness causing a sickening reflection in the light. His face was sunken, rings under his eyes standing out in a frightening contrast. The injury took its toll.

_It's only a matter of time until he collapses. And from there on it's coin flipping whether he'll die of blood loss or septicaemia…_

Wesker didn't answer his question in words, giving his response in the form of trudging past him further down the _RIGHT WAY_.

Birkin trotted up to illuminate their path . The tunnel had become too narrow to walk side by side, so he passed Wesker and took on the lead. It was shocking how his friend's injury had bolted him right back into logic and composure. As soon as his medical mind had kicked in he was able to block out the rest and, for the first time since being trapped in this hellhole, concentrate on something.

Granted, he was no medical doctor but in their line of work one picked up a tidbit of human physiology, biochemistry and pathology. Birkin didn't know how to stitch Wesker back together, but he thought he knew enough to avoid his state from getting any worse. In consideration of the current circumstances, that was.

"Stop."

Birkin slammed to a halt, whirling around to face his friend. Wesker's eyes were wide and although he seemed to stare at Birkin, his gaze was distant and unfocused.

_we can't stop now…_

"We should continue. Just a little bit more," he coaxed. "Then we can rest."

Wesker seemed confused at first, his brows furrowing in perplexity. "No," he growled in annoyance, pointing a shaky hand behind Birkin. "Turn around, you idiot."

Birkin did as ordered – and his breath hitched in his throat. A few meters ahead of them, slumped against the left wall, was something that held a striking resemblance to, and probably was a human. How had he not seen it before? He mentally slapped himself for not paying enough attention to their surroundings and letting himself get absorbed into thoughts.

Grabbing the flashlight tighter he exchanged another look with his colleague. A consenting nod set his legs into movement. They approached the body slowly, but it was already clear from a distance that the man was dead.

And from the looks of it, he had been so for quite a while.

It was no worker that lay cadaverous before them and Birkin scrunched his nose at the penetrating smell, wondering why they hadn't smelt the acidic odor from a mile away. The corpse once belonged to a man and the clothing indicated that he had come down here on a planned trip. Why he hadn't returned to the surface again, that was a mystery that still needed solving.

"He looks similar to the man I found earlier," Wesker noted, leaning against the opposite wall. "The one with the diary."

Until now Birkin had forgotten about the journal, absently groping into the pocket of his labcoat. It was still there, but it was likely that the water had drenched the paper and the ink had become unreadable. No use in bothering with it now.

"Search him," Wesker instructed. "Perhaps he has something useful."

Birkin wasn't too keen on performing that task, but handed the flashlight to his companion and pulled up his sleeves. The corpse's mouth was open, one gold tooth reflecting in the light. The tongue seemed to have decomposed some time ago.

He avoided to meet the dead's eyes, grimacing as he set to search the man. The first thing he noticed was that the corpse had a backpack strapped around his shoulders, so Birkin took a deep breath and turned the body over. Stiff from years of immobility this task turned out to take more force than he thought. Suddenly the body fell over and dust flew into Birkin's eyes and mouth. He coughed, rubbing at his face.

"What is this?" Wesker inquired curiously.

Birkin opened his eyes again and blinked in surprise, inspecting the backpack closer.

"That's…"

Six little wooden sticks stuck out of the material. Their ends were feathered and Birkin pulled one out cautiously. It was approximately as long as his finger.

"Arrows," Wesker said. "They look like the ones used in blowguns."

"Do you think that's what killed him?"

"Through the rucksack? No. But check the rest of his body, perhaps one got through."

Birkin did as told, grimacing a little at the moldy touch beneath his fingers and the abnormal rigidity of the corpse's skin beneath its clothes.

"There's nothing," he declared in frustration.

"Perhaps he pulled it out before he died," Wesker offered, then shrugged. "What's in the backpack?"

Letting go of the corpse, Birkin brushed off the five remaining arrows from the rucksack, then opened it. It held a ration of food, a flask of water and a second journal. The jackpot was a small, metal compass.

Birkin held it into the light, blew the uppermost layer of dust away and opened it. It showed into a southwestern direction.

"Luck is on our side," he whispered, eyes bulging out of their sockets in excitement. Perhaps, perhaps, just perhaps they had the ghost of a chance to get out of here now! He was aware that the compass wasn't a magical door out of hell, but every new tool they acquired seemed to boost Birkin's mental survival.

He looked back up at his friend with the hint of a grin, his face falling back into worry the instant he did. Wesker wasn't doing well. Birkin would even go as far to say that the man was in a _bad_ shape. And being in a _bad_ shape in a godforsaken spot of the world like this never took a happy ending.

Wesker was pale, the skin on his face almost translucent, the veins beneath it throbbing rhythmically in the phosphorescent light. Birkin glanced further down and had to oppress a grimace. The white stripes of labcoat had taken on deeply crimson color and the pant leg beneath was equally soaked with Wesker's life juice.

"Sit down," he commanded.

Wesker blinked, then shook his head. "No. Not if you want to continue. I'm tired and I don't know if I can bring myself to walk again."

"You're exhausted. You need rest. And I need to change the dressing on your wound."

Not waiting for a reply he placed his hand on his friend's shoulder and applied an implicative pressure. Wesker's resistance was meager and Birkin couldn't decide whether to be happy or alarmed about it. He pressed the back of his hand against the man's cheek and sighed.

"You're starting to fever."

Wesker gave dry snort. "I'm freezing anyway."

Beneath his clothes Birkin had goosebumps too, but there was little he could do to warm himself or Wesker. Running to raise their temperature was out of the window and he could think of little else.

Removing the knife, he began to turn more of his coat into temporary bandages. It would last for two or three more dressings at most. While he worked, his friend grabbed the new journal and wiped off the dust from its cover. Birkin observed him from the corner of his eye, wondering whether Wesker was truly interested in what was written there or just searched a means of distraction.

Once he was done with the stripes, he turned to his companion's wound. For a moment he considered opening the knot, then decided to cut the old bandage with the knife. They couldn't reuse it anyway.

"'Property of John Tappert'," Wesker read as he opened the journal. He turned to the next page. "'There has been no word of Franklin for a year. With a lot of effort and the necessary wherewithal I have succeeded in making out his last known location. Apparently he conducted studies on a primitive tribe in Africa. I am headed there now.'"

Birkin undid the soaked material from around Wesker's leg, careful in his actions. The fabric clang to the exposed flesh and he did his best not to come into contact with the spear still firmly lodged in the leg. That would mean excruciating pain.

He listened to Wesker thumbing through the pages. "'He was here. They say he went into what they call the Hole of Gods. Only the most skilled men dare to enter. The Gods punish those who are unworthy. Did They keep'- _shit_, Will!"

"Sorry," he mumbled. "This won't work out short and sweet. I have to apply some pressure if you want to keep the blood in your body."

Wesker moaned. "Hurry up at least." He turned his attention back to the book, skipping a handful of pages.

"'I am alone. I think I have found a marking, but was it done by Franklin? I am starting to be beset by doubts. This cave system covers miles and miles. No warrior from the tribe is willing to lead me, they claim it is ridicule towards their deity. At least they allow me to restock my provisions, but I am afraid to venture deeper into this hole unarmed.'"

Birkin looked up from his work. "Unarmed?"

"The entry ends here." Wesker said, shaking his head. He glanced at the next page, but there seemed to be nothing of interest. He flicked through the booklet some more, then suddenly stopped, furrowing his brow. He drew a finger along the words, as if to make sure they really existed.

Birkin craned his neck. "What's there?"

Wesker stared at it a little longer and when he spoke, it was with a foreboding tone that made the hairs on the back of Birkin's neck stand up.

"'They are right… everyone is right… I am blind… _THE GODS ARE HERE_.'"

* * *

**Since I couldn't decide for a single name out of those wonderful entries, I decided to mix them together. Thank you everyone! In the next chapter we will start to approach Level HORROR 3, the peak of this story. Soon, a lot of things will become clear. And bloody, for that matter.**


	16. Chapter XVI

Chapter XVI

Birkin walked in front, the old, worn backpack hanging from his shoulders. They had decided to keep it for easier transportation of the items they had found along the way. Wesker kept his eyes locked on that rucksack, committing every little stain and rip to his memory. It was a stupid method of distraction, but the only one he could think of to stop his mind from wandering to the one thing that became harder and harder to ignore.

They had done a ten minute break (or that was how long he guessed; it was hard to tell without a watch) after Birkin saw to his wound. His body had used that time to regenerate minimally, but his leg became stiff and aching, the muscles in it deciding that they didn't want to be subjected to such agony anymore.

The result was more pain and a heavy limp, coupled with an extremely slow gait. Even though he was gritting his teeth in frustration, he fell back progressively. Birkin had to halt ever so often to wait for him. It seemed as if they weren't advancing at all.

_get yourself together or you'll rot down here_

He had to think of John Tappert and his journal.

'Only the most skilled men dare to enter. The Gods punish those who are unworthy. Did They keep his body in retribution?'

Wesker didn't believe in gods, much less in those that were supposed to live in caves, but he couldn't shake the thought off, the sentences of that withered old parchment persistent in his mind. What did the man mean when he talked about gods? What did he mean when he said that they were here?

'This is my last trip into the Hole. I will search for Franklin one more time. May the Lord protect me.'

The Lord had not protected John Tappert and the Gods had taken his soul. Later entries were hurried and inchoate, with logical thought giving way to whatever madness the man had succumbed to in the end.

If it came down to it Wesker hoped that his body would kill him before one of the abhorrent creatures could.

"What the fuck?" Birkin's voice rang from up ahead.

Wesker narrowed his eyes, but couldn't recognize what his friend was pointing the flashlight at out of this distance. Using the wall as a support he limped on, trying to place as little weight as possible on the throbbing leg.

Birkin had stopped in the middle of the tunnel, inspecting the left wall. Ahead of him the cave stretched on, the corridor widening rather unnaturally. As Wesker got closer, all the agony disappeared for a moment, replaced by elusive hope.

The new width was indeed unnatural, the walls smoother in form and texture, the ground less rugged. This had to be man-made, no question. They were getting out.

He limped past Birkin, too lost in his newly found confidence to bother with his friend's examinations of the cave. But before he could place a foot on even ground, his companion pulled him by the shoulders, evoking a cry of distress. His balance slipping, Wesker tried to equilibrate with a sidestep, realizing only too late that it was his bad leg. He grimaced, his vision turning spotty, white stars dancing before his eyes. His knee buckled and he felt Birkin's grip tighten around his torso in support.

"Don't faint on me now…"

The world circled, his heightened temperature abruptly exploding into an all consuming fever, making him sweat from every pore.

'And because of its wondrous effects, they called it the blossom of life. Only the chosen ones are granted to witness its powers._'_

'_Deep down below the earth, they are the Stairway to the Sun,' their guide had explained._

"Albert!"

He jolted awkwardly, slipping on the stone ground. Birkin lowered him into a sitting position, crouching down beside him.

"How many fingers?"

Bile rose in his throat and he liked nothing more than to empty his stomach all across his friend's three fingers. Birkin's hand touched his forehead, while Wesker tried to stop the world from spinning.

"Shit…" he heard the other man curse. "Shit, shit, shit. Get a grip, Albert. Focus, try to focus!"

Birkin underlined his more than useless instructions by starting to shake Wesker's shoulders repeatedly, but stopped as soon as he produced a moan.

"… stop, Will, stop, my _head_," Wesker stammered, bringing up one unsure hand to cover his face. His eyes were banging out of their sockets.

Upon hearing that his comrade collapsed on the floor beside him, sighing desperately. "Don't you pull such a stunt on me again. I thought you were dying!"

"No… I was just… you brought me out of balance and I landed wrongly and the pain was just… overwhelming."

"I'm sorry," Birkin confessed and there was genuine remorse in his voice. "But I had to." His tone changed and the next words were so serious that they evoked goosebumps on his skin. "This is the end, you know."

"What?" Wesker echoed, freezing. In no way possible had he heard correctly. He propped himself up against the wall, nausea and dizziness forgotten instantly.

Birkin got to his feet without bothering with further explanations and extended a hand towards his friend. "Have a look at it yourself. Come on, let me help you up."

When that bothersome procedure was finished, Wesker stared at the spot on the wall the other man had inspected a minute ago, and indeed, Birkin seemed to be right about what he was saying.

_AT THE END_

was crudely carved into the rock. Wesker felt his shoulders slump and the newly acquired energy leave his body. But why was it the end? The way continued onwards and it looked more like an exit than it had ever before. Or was it meant as the end of a horrible nightmare? The end of the Gods' dominion?

"This must be the exit," he stated resolutely, not even allowing himself to consider alternate options. "It has to be."

Birkin shone the flashlight into the broader corridor skeptically. "I don't know," he mumbled. "We should be careful. Stay here for a moment. I'll have a look around."

While Wesker wasn't very fond of the idea of being left behind again, he couldn't say that he liked the prospect of exploring THE END either. Not when they hadn't figured out its exact meaning yet. He just nodded his consent, watching as his friend ventured deeper into the man-shaped tunnel.

The atmosphere here had turned from wet to dry again and in the place Birkin walked a thick layer of sand and dirt had deposited on the ground. The researcher took just one step at a time, proceeding only when he had explored enough of the surroundings around him to ascertain a safe passage.

Up until one point.

There was a sudden mechanical _click_ as Birkin shifted his weight to take another stride and then everything went very quickly.

Wesker's eyes widened as the sound reached his ears and the conclusion of what had just happened was there before he could even finish the thought.

"Back!" he yelled in warning. "Run back!"

Birkin, who seemed to have honed his reflexes during their underground journey, took a giant leap back, breaking into a mad sprint as soon as his feet hit the ground. Not two seconds later the mechanism that he had accidently triggered set off.

_Yes_, Wesker thought as he watched dumbfounded, _this tunnel has certainly been shaped by men._

Because natural caves, they didn't have wooden stakes shooting out of the ground as soon as you stepped on a wrong stone. At least two dozen of the massive spears dominated a section of the corridor for a moment. They disappeared as suddenly as they had come.

"Sweet lord," Birkin gasped, still out of breath. He trotted up to stand beside Wesker, giving his own figure a brisk inspection as if wanting to assure that he was still whole.

"This is truly the end," Wesker mumbled, the situation more than forlorn. There was no way they could overtake this new obstacle.

Birkin sighed impatiently, starting to pace the safe part of the corridor. His feet thudded against the ground and the sound reminded Wesker of the man from earlier, the one who had tried to squash his eyes out, accusing him of untrue crimes in his native language.

"Perhaps we can jump over the trigger plate," Birkin suggested, but by the tone of it wasn't all too convinced by this idea himself.

Wesker shook his head. "There could be multiple activators. Go ahead and die this way if it appeals to you, but I won't follow you."

His friend smirked, scrutinizing him critically. "And where do you think you'll be going?"

That, of course, was a justifiable question, by all means. He wasn't sure if he knew the answer himself yet. Should he go back into the spider's lair and have his face cut to slices by its sharp claws, unable to scream his misery aloud? Or perhaps he'd return to the giant and ask it to complete what it had started and stab him in the heart with the other end of the spear. Or just perhaps… he'd go to search the Cheshire Cat of Wonderland and get lost in the Hole's never ending labyrinth.

But then it occurred to him, so sudden like an illumination in a feverish dream.

"I'll take the right way," he announced and thought that this decision made the pain in his body at least a little more bearable.

Birkin furrowed a brow and although Wesker didn't notice it, his features were lined with worry. "We already took the right way. It leads to the end."

"No, we didn't," Wesker insisted, eyes agape. "This is the right way, not the _right_ way."

His friend didn't seem to follow, but he was sure to make him understand.

"The _right_ way, Will. It was never about left or right. Not about directions. It was about right or wrong. And we took the _wrong_ way."

Birkin's expression lit up, then it fell back to red-rimmed eyes, pale, prominent cheek bones and the beginnings of unshaved stubble. Wesker thought he looked horrible, but was glad not to have a mirror around and be able to look at himself.

"We can't go back. It's too far." Birkin declared and pointed at his leg. "You can't do that. You'll die."

A bubble of laughter formed in his throat, some truly grim and humorless sound that he was shocked of as it left his lips. "Do you think it matters to me," he said, "if I sit down here and wait to bleed to my death, or if I walk just a little longer? I don't want to be AT THE END, Will. Not yet."

But Birkin didn't get the chance to answer, because at that moment fate decided to cut down one of their alternatives.

From up ahead, from beyond the stakes of death, came the voice of the giant (_or maybe one of the Gods?_) in a high pitched, ululating cry and both man knew immediately who this introduction belonged to.

"Back," Birkin whispered, the horror in his soul not only mirroring in his eyes, but also in his voice. It quivered with fear. "We have to run!"

"We cannot escape it…"

The echoes of its steps carried the giant closer, still out of the flashlight's range, but very well within their auditory range.

"Albert, come on…"

He didn't move, didn't react, staring off into the foreboding darkness up ahead. Oh god, this was the end, for everybody.

'Will I ever find you, Franklin? I am beginning to lose myself. The Ndypaya warned me. The Hole takes its tribute. One must pay it. With sanity. With blood.'

Although he couldn't see it, he remembered quite clearly what it looked like. Naked bones and putrid skin, stinking flesh and muscles of steel.

'You must pay it. With soul. And life.'

"Give me your backpack!" Wesker suddenly cried, all but ripping the item from his friend's back. Resolution had found its way back into his head, if only for a very short moment.

"What?!" Birkin screamed, but Wesker was already executing what thoughts had formed in his mind. He turned the rucksack upside down and shook the contents out of its belly. Then he pressed it back into his companion's hands.

"Fill it with stones, with sand, I don't care. Make it heavy. And hurry!"

Because the giant, ignorant to their plans, continued in its approach, swinging the skeletal collars and great tusks, gripping its broken spear in one malformed paw.

Birkin followed the instructions without further inquiries, throwing whatever he could find into the backpack, his bloody and broken nails scraping across the ground in haste.

At long last the giant stepped into the flashlight's range, like an actor awaiting his applause on the big stage. The huge body bent forward in a mock bow, before straightening so it filled the entire tunnel, beads of blood and water mixing on its dark grey skin. It let out a deep, feral growl as it spotted them – _those who are unworthy _- and raised the broken spear.

Wesker couldn't tell whether his heart raced wildly or stopped altogether as Birkin sprung up beside him and pressed the rucksack into his hands.

"It'll kill us!" he cried hysterically, but was too paralyzed by fear to run for his life.

The giant came closer and Wesker took a shaky step forward, weighing the rucksack in his hands. They had only this one chance – no alternatives – so it really didn't matter anymore.

Their enemy let out a screech, the muscles in its body tensing as it began to run. Wesker took another step, past THE END, and tried to remember where Birkin had walked before.

'There is not enough hope for us, Franklin. What is left of it I must take to save myself.'

The giant leapt and Wesker threw the rucksack. When the monster was in mid-air, spear at the ready, the mechanism triggered.

There was a _click_ and two dozen stakes shot up to catch their next victim.

* * *

**Since I'm currently struggling with exams, I must apologize to a lot of you for not answering your reviews personally. I just want you all to know that I read each and every one of them (and that not only once!) and your support throughout this story has motivated me so much throughout, I cannot thank you enough. In other words: you guys are responsible for the prolonged horror and suffering of our heroes!**

**THANKS PEOPLE!**


	17. Chapter XVII

Chapter XVII

They both stood there for what seemed like an eternity, their feet grown onto the ground, their eyes fixed on the pulpy mess in front of them. Blood gushed from the many wounds like a morbid waterfall, building small pools on the earth and little streams when enough had accumulated. The streams became lakes, then seas, then oceans. When the crimson eventually reached Birkin's feet he grimaced and took a step back.

Wesker stood in the middle of the blood, magically enthralled by the dead body before their eyes. Taking his guts together, Birkin ignored the blood and took two splashy strides through it until he came up beside his friend. He put a dirty hand on Wesker's shoulder, letting it rest there as reassurance and thanks and whatever the other man thought of the gesture.

Quietly, almost afraid to disturb the silence, he said, "We should go on."

Wesker didn't seem to hear, or if he did, then he didn't react. The flashlight was in Birkin's hand and although no direct light shone on them, he could clearly make out the beads of sweat on his companion's face, and the terrifying paleness of his skin. Wesker's body quivered lightly under his touch, but Birkin doubted that the other man even noticed it.

"It's not a monster, Will," Wesker murmured disquieted and extended one arm toward the fallen body. Birkin was about to voice his reservations, but before he could bring out a word the other man grabbed one of the great tusks and pulled. There were several rips and cracks, white bone moving, bloodied feathers gliding over slimy surface.

With one great tug Wesker detached the Devil's face from the rest of its skull. Behind fearsome tusks and false tissue was the monster's true head. And it didn't look like Birkin imagined it to. It didn't have horns like a demon, didn't have fangs to rip them apart and its dead, glazed eyes couldn't gouge holes into their vulnerable bodies.

The Devil was a man.

His expression was disfigured, tongue hanging out limply from in between burst lips. Sanguine fell from it in a steady manner, drip drip drip drip _dripping_. Birkin noticed how the veins on the man's face stuck out, dilated for maximal circulation to the point of deformation.

It came to him that these were typical signs of infection – of a very _specific_ infection – but there was no way in hell that such an assumption was realistically possible. _Too much stress, not enough sleep, false conclusions, _he thought. _Simple as that._ T was developed in America and Progenitor only bonded with the human genome since 72 hours ago, when the new strain had been discovered.

Birkin's attention was drawn back to the body, to perhaps the most bizarre part of it all: the eyes. Dirty, almost yellow orbs were adorned by several tiny veins, and seemed far too small for their sockets. They looked as if they were sucked into the skull by some invisible vacuum, as if they were less exposed to outside dangers from their unnatural hideout. Black pupils, barely the size of a pinhead, fixated him with such an intent glare that it made his skin crawl.

_you SICK FREAK _

the eyes said and the corpse's pained grimace took on the form of a distorted smirk for just a split second. Birkin blinked and the face reverted back to its death rigor.

Beside him Wesker suddenly bent down and grabbed the broken spear out of the Devil's impaled hand, holding it into the light scrutinizingly.

"A good crutch," he announced and his voice had lost every trace of amazement it had held a minute before. As soon as nightmares come to live were scientifically uncovered, the blond seemed to be done with the topic. Birkin couldn't help but quiver; man or not, monster remained monster. What if there were more of those demons out there?

He turned away from the body in disgust, shivers bolting up and down his body. "Jesus… let's just get the fuck out of here."

So they started their journey back.

At least with the new walking stick Wesker's energies weren't draining so fast, and by using both the crutch and the wall he could move without putting too much strain on his injury. It wasn't a permanent solution, but as long as they could keep walking Birkin wasn't going to complain. He helped his friend as often as the size of the tunnel would allow, but avoided to inform Wesker that his fever was continually rising.

That was not a very good thing and Birkin considered running up to the underground lake to fetch some water in the flask they'd found among Tappert's belongings. Wesker was drying out, both through bloodloss and lack of water-intake. And truth to be said Birkin wouldn't mind a swallow to drown that bile that had risen in his throat at the sight of the felled Devil.

They had to take two more breaks on the way. Wesker slipped into a half-doze, half-delirium every time he closed his eyes for more than a few minutes and on the second pause Birkin pulled out Tappert's journal and decided to browse through it while giving his companion time to recuperate.

He skipped right into the middle of entries and began reading.

'When in the Hole, I cannot distinguish day from night. Sometimes, when I find my way back out the Ndypaya tell me that they feared their deities had taken me. They do not dare to enter the Hole outside of their ritual proceedings and I could not understand when the next of such kind is to take place.'

He skimmed a handful of pages. This time, the entry was a lot less eloquent.

'They hunt me. I stole it and now they want to kill me. At least I got them into this hellhole! The Gods will punish them! I'll lead them to the Grimm Reaper and leave them to their judgment. And then I can continue my search for you, Franklin. With IT I can find you.'

Birkin wondered what _it_ was, and decided that perhaps he would find out by continuing to read.

'I can't anymore! Why is it not working? It's not working, doesn't doesn't doesn't doesn't _NO_! They knew it and that's why they let me get away, those BACKSTABBERS, how they knew that I'd be my own death and they wouldn't have to bother and they'll let me _die!_'

'i havent eaten i'm so hungry and it hurts all over and in my head and all over should i just go to the end?'

Birkin's brow furrowed at that, and he ran a finger over the last words. They were written in larger size than the rest and he was almost sure that the author referred to the same end they had just visited themselves. Was this an indication to attempted suicide? They had found Tappert not far from that place, after all. Only, there hadn't been any clues suggesting suicide. No cuts – no weapons, whatsoever – no strangulation… and he doubted that the explorer had perished of an overdose of drugs. There would have been some leftovers, wouldn't there? Birkin was convinced that Tappert's death was in some way connected to _it_ – he only had to find out what it was.

Wesker suddenly coughed and shifted his position, blinking wearily to adjust his sight to the torch light.

"How are you feeling?" Birkin asked, flipping the journal shut.

His companion rubbed at his eyes and automatically looked at his wrist, clicking his tongue when he remembered that he had no watch. Eventually he propped himself up and grabbed the improvised crutch. "It's awfully cold. Don't let me sleep again. Come on. I want to get out."

They got to their feet.

Birkin wondered how long the flashlight would still provide them with a defense against the darkness. How long had they been locked in here already? Hours? Or perhaps a day already? How long would the batteries last until they were depleted? He really didn't want to jinx their luck in such a situation, but what the hell were they supposed to do once the lights went off?

_go back to end, of course,_ his mind suggested as if it was the most sensible thing in the world. He shook his head at himself. _That_ was no option.

When they finally reached the forking Birkin stopped to scrutinize the carved words on the wall again, his dry lips cracking as he smirked. The right way, eh? _What a little deceiving bastard_, he caught himself thinking visciously. Probably cost them hours of precious time. Perhaps they could have been out of here by now already, if not for this damn little trap.

"What are you waiting for?" Wesker asked and Birkin noticed that the man was already on the edge of the flashlight's vision, with a head-start into the new corridor, when a second ago he had been lagging behind so much.

_Whoa, how long have I just stared at that wall?_

Birkin blinked, feeling slightly disoriented as he massaged his temples. The deprivation of rhythmical day-night phases or just a simple watch was getting to him. Either the minutes didn't want to pass, or they flew by in such a hurry that was left dumbfounded to wonder where they had gone off to.

"Just a second," he told Wesker and pointed to the way that led to the lake. "Stay here, I want to fill up the flask. We don't know how long we'll be trapped in here."

Wesker mumbled something incomprehensible and fidgeted around in his pocket. He procured the lighter and Birkin turned away with the torch, leaving his companion alone in the darkness with no more than a little flame (of hope).

The underground lake wasn't two minutes of walk away and he encountered no dangers on the way. Opening the bottle he bent down at the waterside and submerged the flask into the icy cold. Little bubbles of air popped on the surface and the container started to fill up.

Behind him he suddenly heard steps, but was immediately at ease as he recognized their asymmetric pattern. A normal one, followed by a slower, scuffling one. It was Wesker – no need to get the creeps.

"Afraid of the dark, huh?" he mused aloud, satisfied to see how the last air bubbles left the flask and were replaced by water. He just hoped it was drinkable and not infected with god knew what microbes. The last thing he needed was the shits in a place with no toilet paper.

Wesker still approached, apparently not in the mood to propose an answer to his question. When the flask was full, Birkin popped the cork back on and rose to his feet to turn around to his companion.

"Alright, it's all do-"

But the last syllable turned into a frantic squeal as the person before him clonked him over the head with something particularly _hard_. Like a heavy stone, he plumply fell into the underground lake, his consciousness drifting before he even impacted with the water.

Although the flashlight still shone, the world went dark for Birkin.

* * *

**... cliffhanger?**

**In other news, this story has the honor of being translated into another language! .-SnipingWolf is currently writing the spanish version of it. I strongly suggest you take a look at this magnificent author's original work, it's something you shouldn't miss out on if you like quality RE fanfiction!**


	18. Chapter XVIII

Chapter XVIII

The flames wrapped around each other, their light licking the wall's jags and lending an eerie glow to its mysterious inscriptions.

Birkin was gone for no longer than two minutes. Wesker could tell by the temperature the metal was obtaining in his hand. A few seconds later he had to flip the lighter shut, hissing at the heat as he slipped it back into his pocket.

Then he was back in total darkness.

One would think that after all the time he spent down in the Hole he'd get used to the absence of light, but the deprivation of vision, the most utilized human sense, left Wesker defenseless in a dollhouse of demons.

The touch of stone under his fingers was suddenly that much subtler, the perspiration on his forehead that much more tactile and his pulse and breathing that much louder, so that it was hard to concentrate on the most important sound of all - silence.

Only that there was no silence. Wesker froze for a moment, then instinctively pressed his back closer to the wall. He wasn't hearing just his own breathing. There was a sound hiding behind it, skillfully using his lungs as decoy. He couldn't identify what it was. It couldn't be Birkin. He wasn't gone long enough to have completed his task and return already.

_if he got there at all_

Perhaps he'd met an obstacle along the way? The sound became louder now and it wasn't hard for Wesker to classify it as footsteps. The pace was quick, almost arrhythmic.

_is he running?_

He was tempted to call into the darkness and confirm his assumptions, but stopped himself at the last moment. Hadn't he learned anything at all in this hellhole? Nothing good ever came out of it. Caution was never wrongplaced. So he pushed himself farther to the side, clutching the makeshift crutch until the knuckles on his fingers turned white.

Whatever was about to happen, he had the advantage of surprise on his side.

The steps started to echo in the corridor. They built up speed and were soon joined by deep, irregular gasps. Whoever came was in great haste. But… if Birkin was trying to escape something, he would have surely shouted a warning by now, wouldn't he?. He knew of Wesker's state, knew that he couldn't run with his leg.

Wesker bit his lip. But _would_ William warn him? Would he, even though he knew that Wesker had no chance of fleeing whatever was after them, not without help and not without slowing them down considerably? If that were the case, wouldn't it be more sensible to sacrifice what was already lost to save at least one life?

His muscles tensed in frustration and he drew blood from his lip. _Shit_. Stay and play or scoop and run? Both were doomed alternatives. If he ran, he'd give away his position and in this state he could barely outrun a crawling infant. But if he stayed, and the thing was not Birkin, what chance did he stand to survive a struggle against it?

A blinding light suddenly filled the tunnel. Wesker had to keep himself from bringing his hand up to shield his eyes, knowing that such a movement would betray him instantly. The firefly rounded the corner. It was impossible to make out who was holding the flashlight.

Wesker's grasp on the broken spear tightened. The rugged walls around him gave him cover and he knew from experience that it was impossible to make out details in the jagged cave when on the run and in such obvious desperation.

The being came closer, but Wesker couldn't look into the torch's bright orb yet. He took one last mouthful of air, then held his breath.

His heart gave two more beats.

Then the person passed.

It was not Birkin.

Without a trace of hesitation, Wesker took all his strength and put it into a single blow, knocking the runner hard across the back of the head with his makeshift crutch. There was a crack, a startled yelp and then the dull impact of flesh with stone.

Wesker didn't waste his opportunity. Springing from the shadows like a bizarre memory of the giant, he went one better and slammed his victim across the head another time. This time the cry was a lot more dazed.

Kicking the flashlight out of his inferior opponent's hand he turned the stupefied man around, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt – and froze. Before him, lying in the dirt with a likely broken nose, was their former tour guide Smidt. Smidt, although claimed dead by Birkin, seemed very alive to Wesker. He blinked, questioning his own rationality for a moment. But Smidt was still there, not just some figment of his overworked mind's imagination.

Slowly, Smidt began to shake off his stupor and started wriggling under his grasp. Before the man could utter a word Wesker lifted him by his shirt, landing a third hit in Smidt's face. Teeth cracked under his knuckles and the man spew blood a moment later.

"_Where the hell is William?!"_ Wesker inquired at the top of his lungs, not caring who or what heard them. This was the moment of determining who was in control. If he lost this dispute, he was as good as dead. He shook Smidt again brutally.

"_Answer!"_

There was a look of confusion on the man's face and for a moment Wesker thought that he was accusing the wrong suspect. But when the hint of a grin appeared on Smidt's lips and he giggled quietly, Wesker knew that the stolen flashlight belonged to his friend.

"Took a dive…" Smidt croaked before chocking on the blood in his mouth, his grin displaying a set of crimson stumps and purple gum.

Wesker's fist frenchkissed the man's visage before he even processed the information correctly. Smidt's head fell back and his body went limp, losing every trace of tension. Wesker dropped him without another thought, grabbed the torch and turned on his heels before he was able to attest whether his opponent was still alive or not.

His leg was on fire, just as his mind, and although both were functioning on overload, he neither managed to move quickly nor sort out the jumble of thoughts that were dashing through his head. The flashlight cast grotesque shadows on the walls as he ran into the darkness' open maw.

Tears ran down his cheeks and he bit his tongue in an attempt to quell the pain, alternating between limping and supporting himself on the wall and crutch. At one point he thought he had to get down on his knees to crawl, the agony so fogging that he could barely think clearly.

Up ahead gleamed the majestic underground sea, its surface reflecting off the flashlight's beam. Wesker collapsed on the shore, giving off a cry of distress as the strain on his leg dreaded to rob his senses.

The flask lay abandoned on the side and there was no trace of Birkin.

"William!" he called at the top of his lungs, but knew that he would hear no answer.

Desperately he shone the torch into the water, groping blindly down the stone in hopes of finding a sign of his companion.

'_took a dive'_

God, let him still be alive!

In the moment that he considered plunging into the icy water, something shot up from the depth and grabbed his wrist with almost inhuman force. Wesker cried out in surprise, bracing himself desperately against being pulled down into the water.

The force increased and an ownerless arm soared up, catching hold of a hank of his hair and painfully pulling his head underwater. Wesker screamed, but instead of air his lungs filled with liquid and he clawed at the enemy hand in an attempt to save himself from drowning.

The grip around his head did not loosen and he felt his hold on land slip, the water demon pulling him deeper. In panic, Wesker lashed out with the flashlight, using it as a club. The third strike hit something. He was instantly free.

Pulling his upper body out on land, he inhaled as much air as his lungs would allow before bursting. Not wanting to give the demon a second chance at killing him, Wesker scurried away from the edge in a scurry, his eyes scanning the perimeter for the live saving spear.

_fuck fuck fuck_

Splashing, growls, snarls. Damn where was _that stick?!_

"MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD!"

Every bone in his body locked tight at that threat, his heart paralyzed. He _knew_ that voice.

Overcoming his rigor, Wesker whirled around and pointed the torch directly at his newly emerged opponent, effectively blinding him. It gave him the split second he needed to recognize who he was fighting against.

"William, stop!" he howled, his hand finally finding the spear. He held the broken end up, obtaining a temporary slowdown from the berserk man.

"One more step and I'm going to stick this right through your damn guts, William," he warned and meant every word he said.

Birkin stopped, his eyes wide with rage and his fists clenched frantically. He was dripping wet, his hair a fuzzy mess of dirt and blood. His entire persona emitted the aura of a madman.

"You goddamn son of a bitch…" he muttered, barely able to restrain himself. The volume of his voice rose with every word he said. "… got your mind fried, lost your sanity, WANTED TO KILL ME!!!"

In that moment Wesker realized that there was no talking good to his friend. He rushed to his legs like he was in the best of conditions and when Birkin attacked, Wesker landed a blow square across the researcher's jaw, literally hearing his teeth crush against each other.

"Stop, for god's sake!" Wesker demanded, leaping out of the way to evade a punch to the guts. When he tried to sidestep his leg buckled under him and he growled in frustration and pain.

_no way on earth I can win this_

"Stop!" he yelled again, throwing the flashlight at Birkin's head in last defense. "It wasn't me! It wasn't me, goddamn it! IT WAS SMIDT!"

"Smidt's dead!" Birkin bellowed, dodging the missile. "Stonedead like every poor soul that fell into this hell!"

"He's alive, idiot!" Wesker hissed, but did not lower the spear pointed at the other man. "I knocked him out as he tried to flee with the flashlight! He _told_ me he pushed you into the water!"

Birkin did not seem convinced by that, but whatever injury he had suffered from Smidt seemed to take its toll. He swayed, only barely catching himself. That was Wesker's chance. Advancing, he brought down the spear and hit his friend in the crook of the neck. Birkin cried out and tripped over rough ground, tumbling to his knees as he failed to regain his balance. Moaning, his hands shot up to cover his face and although the flashlight did not illuminate his head, Wesker saw blood on his friend's fingertips as he retraced them.

Cautiously he lowered the spear, not completely, but enough to show that he wasn't bent on settling this the painful way. "Please, Will. Be sensible. I draw no benefits from lying."

The other man bent forward, one hand still pressed to his temples. He entered the torch's range by that movement and Wesker noticed the many burst veins adorning his right eye and the generous laceration to the side of his head. Without another warning Birkin vomited water and bile and some half digested rests that were still in his stomach.

At that point Wesker turned the weapon back into a walking support. Birkin had just declared his submission. The conflict had supplied Wesker with a surprising dose of adrenaline, but now that it was over, so disappeared the energy. He could suddenly feel his heart beat at a rate that was too fast to last him throughout the Hole, could feel the layer of sweat that had settled on his face and chest and back. His muscles expressed their exhaustion in the form of a pulsatile ache. Only his leg didn't hurt as much as he had expected it to. He could barely feel his toes. Of course there was pain, but it was encased in a coat of very heavy numbness. In the long run that was a bad sign, but right now Wesker couldn't be more grateful.

Birkin retched again, emptying the last of his stomach.

Eventually he found the voice to whisper. "Where is that fucker?"

Instead of answering, Wesker held out a helping hand. His companion understood, getting to his feet. The dizziness seemed to be gone. Birkin wiped some blood from his face, picked up flashlight and flask and wordlessly offered to support Wesker, as if nothing had just happened.

They needed double the time to backtrack to the forking. When they arrived, Birkin let Wesker go and he leant against the wall instead.

_take the right way_ was still there.

Smidt was not.

* * *

**And so ends another chapter. Now the bad news. The next update is only in two weeks, or very late next weekend. I have my exam next week, so I'll be spending every free minute packing medical knowledge into my brain. **

**To end this author's note, plushie-facehuggers to everyone who reviewed so far. 200 reviews, people, I would have never imagined that! THANK YOU so much!**


	19. Chapter XIX

Chapter XIX

This was the _worst_ fucking headache _ever_. His eyes were literally bulging out of their sockets, his brain thumping rhythmically against its skeletal cage. The blood that ran down his temple tickled the sensitive skin of his face, making him wipe it away every other second. He couldn't see it, but he had to have a very pretty laceration on the side of his head. That was not what occupied Birkin's mind at the moment though.

Smidt was not there.

There was no sign of him, no traces visible on the hard stone ground, no crimson indication to warrant the man's existence.

_because Smidt is dead and you damn well know that_

his mind told him and it came with the bitter taste of memory, of seeing Smidt clutch his injured foot and plead for help and seeing the hope in his eyes turn to acrid misery as he realized that no help would come. Because the scepter of power could not be shared.

Birkin took a sideways glance at his current companion, a little worried that the peripheral vision of his right eye wasn't functioning the way it was supposed to.

Wesker just stood there as if he were paralyzed, fixating the spot he claimed Smidt should be lying in, as if he could actually see the man. Pearls of sweat adorned his forehead and he looked as pale as the winter snow in Arklay Forest.

_Smidt's dead. no way he's here when he's dead. dead men don't walk._

He suddenly burst out laughing at the irony of that particular thought and earned a puzzled glance from Wesker. Birkin's lips transformed right back into a thin line after that. How the hell was he supposed to keep a clear mind when it was dreading to explode?

He clutched the flashlight in his hand, his palms sweaty. The chill of the underground air let the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge, but Birkin knew that there was something else that was responsible for giving him the creeps.

"We… should be careful," Wesker said beside him. He didn't seem too convinced by his own words. "He can't be far. Got to be somewhere around here."

They began walking, but this time Birkin didn't support his friend. There was enough space to do so and Wesker really needed it, but until all facts were clear Birkin liked to remain wary.

He moved faster than his companion, scanning the ground intently for some sign of Smidt, running the recent happenings through his pulsating head again.

Smidt? Here? Was it possible? The last time Birkin had met him he couldn't lift himself to his feet. To come here he had to cross a considerable distance, not to mention take a little swim.

_and strike a deal with the devil. no way he got around that._

Highly unlikely, wasn't it? Birkin listened to the heavy steps behind him. Weren't they the same as those he had heard shortly before he'd blacked out? Hadn't he even suspected Wesker in the first place and called out to him before being attacked?

Because, let's face it, hadn't Wesker arrived at the crime scene incredibly fast? He was there when Birkin regained consciousness and he had the stolen flashlight with him.

_and he wasn't surprised to find me_

He suddenly felt observed, felt Wesker's eyes gouge holes into his back. What if his 'friend' was lying?

_not surprised at the findings and not in the least hesitating to smack me over with that stick_

Did Wesker want to dispose of him? And if so, why? Or was the blood loss driving the man into hallucinations? Did he think he had seen Smidt, when in fact he hadn't? Birkin groped the pockets of his labcoat. And where was the knife? The lighter?

_he's got everything. son of a bitch, even the journal_

"Hey!"

He froze at the exclamation, whirling around on his heels, eyes wide. Wesker had fallen back quite a distance and leaned heavily against one of the walls.

"Do you want to kill me, Will?" Wesker croaked, his voice strained. Birkin raised an eyebrow at that question and his thumping head was actually considering what to reply.

God, perhaps he was twisting things around too much. What if Wesker told the truth and Smidt _was_ lurking out here somewhere? What if that feeling about being watched was real, only that it wasn't Wesker but Smidt waiting for the opportune moment to strike him down once and for all?

And if he just fucked his own mind all by himself now? He shook his head and groaned. He really didn't need to bother with any conspiracy theories in a place like this.

Waiting until Wesker crossed the distance between them, Birkin used the time to look his companion over once again. Wesker could barely keep himself on his feet anymore and the light tremble in his limbs gave the desperation of his body away. No, it couldn't have been Wesker. If he started to doubt his friend, the Hole would win and pull both of them over the edge they were standing on.

There was no reasonable explanation why Wesker would attack him and although the man was unreadable and mysterious at times, there was one thing Birkin had learned early on: Wesker thought and acted logically, drawing his own benefits from every situation. Attacking the only other survivor met neither of these criterias.

When he finally arrived, Wesker more slumped than sat down, the lines on his face speaking pain in their own language. "I need a break."

Birkin grimaced. "Again?"

"Yes," Wesker snarled and the discussion found its end. There was no good in rushing the man into a complete collapse, that was going to cost them even more time. But he couldn't settle with the idea of just waiting and twiddling his thumbs while the exit could be around the next corner.

"I'm going to go scout up ahead," he declared and twirled the flashlight in his hand.

Wesker snorted. "No, you're not. Wasn't one hit to the head enough to teach you better? Splitting up is a _bad_ idea."

"Coming here was a _bad_ idea to start with," Birkin insisted. "I'm going and that's that. Try to stop me if you can."

That hit home. Birkin felt a light sense of triumph creep up and momentarily overshadow the inner voice telling him what of a stupid pigheaded idiot he was to risk his life so carelessly. But to be honest, he'd do about _anything_ if it meant he could get out of here. The darkness was unnerving him more by the second and instead of getting used to his new surroundings Birkin was getting lost, not only in the Hole of Hell, but slowly also in his own head.

"I'll be back," he muttered dryly and left Wesker behind without as much as another word. His companion was either too tired to object or resigned to Birkin's determination. He couldn't conceal a wrong placed grin. Was this how it felt like? To be the one in command? To have the upper hand? To hold the fucking stick_ of power?!_

_or does he just want to get rid of you? make it easy on himself and just let you walk straight into your death?_

But hadn't he cleared the Wesker topic already? Wesker needed him, he couldn't kill him.

…or could he?

_no, no, he can't. no don't worry about it. Smidt'll do it. Smidt'll do it. because *he* can._

Regardless of what Smidt, if he had truly survived, and Wesker were up to, Birkin was slowly giving in under the massive headache. He wanted to blame everything on that. His jumbled thoughts, the conspiracies, the goddamn fear of the dark.

"Get your act together," he whispered to himself and found the sound of his own voice oddly comforting. "I can do this."

The corridor snaked on monotonously and Birkin considered turning around to fetch Wesker before something else might. Just as he was about to turn around, the edge of the light beam caught something on the left wall.

He quickly ran up to it, eager to read another hint that might tell him he was on the right way. But as he got there and inspected the writing up close, a cold shiver spiraled down his spine. The style wasn't the same. It wasn't carved into stone with whatever tool.

The word read

_boo_

and it was written in thick, fresh crimson and Birkin's heart stopped as he comprehended its meaning. He pirouetted before his innards took their functions up again, in his mind already miles away.

But before his muscles could start the standard procedure of running, before he could pump his arms for more speed and hyperventilate in an attempt to balance out for the exertion, Birkin bumped into something very solid and petrified instantly.

Before him stood the boogeyman with crimson on its mouth (from the kids it had eaten) and eyes that slopped over with the kind of madness that made the blood in your veins run cold.

With a grin that reached from one ear to the other (and could probably swallow him whole) the boogeyman bellowed:

"BOO!"

* * *

**Exams coupled with writer's block. That's my only excuse and if you want to know a really really horrible combination**. **The chapter is short, I know, but this was simply the best point to break it. In other news, yes, Will is slowly loosing it.**


	20. Chapter XX

Chapter XX

'In heaven and hell the gods reign,'

John Tappert wrote in his journal. He wrote a lot of things and the more he pondered about it, the more Wesker thought he understood the cryptic messages, thought that he could see that hidden meaning in between the words.

'Franklin, I will search you no more. The little common sense I have left tells me that it is impossible for you to still be alive… as impossible as it is for me to survive if I continue in my pursuit of you. Farewell, my friend, but I don't want to die.'

One might say that these last words were overdramatic and extravagant, but in the small flame of the lighter, trapped in a moisty stone coffin, Wesker found them nothing more than plain _real_. When faced with life and death there was only one correct answer. Survival instinct always prevailed.

_so is it abandon your friends and survive?_

The possibility sounded gruesome, but everyone who marched through Hell would willingly adopt it, if it meant escape.

_so it's sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do_

That was a favourite quote of James Marcus, Professor Doctor fucktard who was going to be responsible for the deaths of Umbrella's two most aspiring new scientists. Wesker must have been right when he'd thought that the company wanted to dispose of them by sending them to Africa.

The whole 'Progenitor-bonds-with-the-human-genome' was nothing more than a simple setup. Birkin and Wesker had screwed up – somewhere, sometime, somehow – and now Umbrella was screwing them. Got them on a tour of the facility, bombed up the corridor and left them to the mercy of an age-old deserted mining system and its responsible deities.

Wesker snorted, shook his head and tried to focus. The last thing he needed was getting angry about why's and because's. Right now his only task was to get out, and that alive.

But what about Birkin? He felt the frustration bottle up again, wanted to give his dear compatriot a healthy slap across his stubborn skull. Going off alone, what was he thinking? In a place like this, death lurked around every corner.

_and what if he's not coming back?_

A (very) small part of him wished his friend a reunion with their tour guide Smidt, just so he could say 'I told you so!' later. Only if Birkin really met up with Smidt, the chance that there would be a later was fairly slim. And if Birkin had left for good – 'farewell my friend, but I don't want to die' – Wesker could wait as long as he wanted.

But waiting would get him no where. Birkin might have the flashlight, but that was not a necessary requirement to survive. If it had to be, Wesker would crawl out of this hellhole on the stumps of his nails. And as opposed to his friend, he had one advantage:

_knowledge_

'The light at the end of the tunnel is carried by the breath of the sun.'

and

'Quick as a flash or dead as a stone and the Grimm Reaper will spare a soul.'

He could interpret neither of those sentences apart from the obvious fact that he had to move his feet fast if he wanted to keep them. The character of the Grimm Reaper still had a questionmark to it, but Wesker was certain that sooner or later he would get the answer. This wasn't the first time that Tappert talked about this persona in his journal and Wesker classified it under the category of Gods. The nastier kind of them.

'Like Hades in his underworld is the Grimm Reaper the king of the Hole. Nothing will slip his attention. ever. Perhaps we can make mutual benefit? I know the way around, but _they_ don't. And nobody disturbs the Gods' peace without leaving a sacrifice. If they want to condemn me for a crime that is not illicit, then I can also punish them for an action they have not yet taken.'

Wesker had not yet figured out what Tappert was followed by, but he found several remarks describing the _blossom of life_ and it did not take a genius to understand what that was a synonym for.

_he must have stolen a sunflower, and they noticed_

What little cultural history he knew of the tribe the Progenitor plant had been first found at, the Ndypaya worshipped it, thinking it gave them supernatural powers and made them direct servants of their deities.

_so he takes the plant, but why?_

Did he believe in their folktales and wanted to experience the strength himself? Did he think that with the aid of a miracle drug he could succeed in finding his dead friend? Perhaps, in a final mad trip of hope(lessness)… people acted abnormally if faced with an abnormal situation, didn't they?

_then he runs into the hole, his only refuge to hide from the raging warriors. they catch him, fling poisoned arrows at his back and leave him to his own judgment in an abyss that never opens its maw twice. he's mad with fear, knows that he'll die, and there's just no other letout. so he does it, ingests the plant, infecting himself and thinking he's saved when he's just doomed himself._

Wesker held back a chuckle. The naivety…

_because of course, he's no scientist. he doesn't know that the gods he's seeing are hallucinations brought forth by the virus and he doesn't feel the pain as he scratches the stumps of his fingers bloody, clawing delirious messages into the wall for Franklin. Franklin who is long dead and will never open his eyes to read them._

Was this how it had occurred? Was the explanation for an underground paradise of monsters as easy as that? Or was he just trying to make a puzzle out of pieces that didn't fit?

Wesker looked down at the last page of John Tappert's journal, the lighter in his hand blistering his skin.

_'I wait_

_here_

_for you forever_

_as long_

_as_

_it takes'_

John Tappert's dying words, before Progenitor claimed body and soul and held them out to the Gods of the Underworld in a sacred ritual.

In that moment Wesker decided that whatever happened in the near future, he didn't want to end like that. Let the bloodloss cost his life, or dehydration, or septicaemia.

_but Lord, leave the mind in its rightful place as long as the body still breathes_

Gently, Wesker took the journal, but instead of putting it back into his pocket, he pushed it into a small alcove into the wall, tearing the leather cover in the process. He then took the old pocket knife and carved two strong lines into the stone, marking a treasure he hoped he would never find again.

If Tappert's last wish had been to wait, then he should be left to do just that. To each his own. Wesker for one was tired of dying. It was time to get out.

-

The boogeyman in all its atrocity was powerful and lethal, able to pull bodies apart piece by piece and rip the mind to such tiny shreds that it never recovered again.

But as all childhood demons it was susceptible to one weakness: light. When Birkin pointed his torch at the monster, it instantly disappeared. There was nothing supernatural to the thing standing before him anymore and although he still felt fear, it was of a different kind and less paralyzing.

Smidt, shielding his eyes from the flashlight, was no monster and even less the boogeyman. His mouth was covered in blood because most of his teeth were broken and his eyes were a demonic red because the veins inside had bursted. Instead of fearful madness, they were filled with panic, exhaustion and an insuppressible resistance to die.

"Stop!" Birkin screamed, avoiding the other man's hits. "You don't have to kill me! Don't kill me!"

"You left me to die!" Smidt spat back and his accent was even thicker with the mess in his mouth.

"I didn't! I-i-i came back!"

"Give me the flashlight!"

Birkin evaded another blow and clutched the torch tight to his chest. This aggravated his former guide even more.

"_Give it to me!"_

"No!" Dodged a punch. "Listen! I'm sorry!" One fist to the guts. "I was scared!" Another one to the chin. "You don't hav- you don't have to do this!"

"GIVE IT TO ME!"

"_WE CAN ALL SURVIVE!"_

He pocketed a slap to his already delicate temple and the image of Smidt was replaced with one of starlit sky. His body hit the ground, the air escaping his lungs. Smidt was upon him, trying to rip the flashlight from his rigid grasp.

"Let go of it!" the man demanded harshly.

Instead of complying with this order Birkin's arm shot forward and the torch connected with his opponent's face, crushing more facial bone. Smidt yelped and leapt back, giving Birkin enough time to recover and get to his knees.

He started to crawl away, but a hand wrapped around his ankle and pulled him back out of balance, onto the ground.

"You cannot leave this time!"

And _how_ he could. He hadn't escaped a facehugging monster and the devil himself to fail now. Desperately, Birkin kicked at his enemy's arm with his other leg, planting the heel of his boot into Smidt's wrist. The man cried out in pain.

For a short moment Birkin was free and he wriggled onward only to be stopped once again. This time Smidt was on him, flailing at his back with a rock. Now it was Birkin's time to shriek as a bolting agony raced through his body.

Smidt lifted the murder weapon once more and aimed it at a new target: Birkin's head. Trapped underneath the other man, there was no way of escaping this assault.

_it's over, done with, I'm dead_

But suddenly Smidt "Oof!"ed and in the next instant the weight was gone off Birkin's back, opponent lying curled up in a ball beside him, clutching his belly. In front of Birkin, in the flashlight's range, two shoes appeared. They continued on into legs and he didn't have to look higher than the knees to know who the new guest to their show was.

"Get up," Wesker commanded briskly, the strain in his voice gone or repressed, Birkin didn't care. This sounded like the Wesker who could fix things when they went to hell. This was the Wesker he needed.

Quickly, he started up to his feet, grabbing the flashlight in the process and handing it to his companion as a sign of submissiveness. Then he only grinned dumbly at Smidt who was still on the floor.

_you're screwed, you stupid gut, the elite is here_

But Wesker did not impose Smidt's rightful judgment on him. Instead he pointed the broken spear tip towards the man and said, "You too. On your feet."

Birkin's features immediately sacked. What the hell?

Wesker remained adamant. "Get to your feet!"

Smidt complied, scurrying up, just as confused about the shift in powers as Birkin. Wesker, as always, played it out against them.

"You are two fucking imbeciles." He pointed at Smidt. "You have nothing better to do than murder the only survivors apart from yourself. And for what? A flashlight that can go out any moment if you idiots throw it around any longer. With light or without, you will end up _dead_, and that's that."

Then he turned to Birkin and what little he could see in his friend's eyes was not well-disposed. "And _you_, don't you think you're any better, you little motherfucker. You've abandoned your group more than once and I swear, if it happens again, I'm going to gut you alive and throw your innards to the various monstrosities lurking around."

Birkin had no reply for that. Or for anything else for that matter. He had never witnessed Wesker use such language or make such threats and the frightening thing about it all was that his friend had just become more unpredictable than every and a single wrong move could lead to his organs landing on the ground. Dryly, he nodded.

"And who makes you the big boss, _doctor_?" Smidt inquired, seemingly less impressed by the blond's outburst. Oh, he didn't know what was brewing up there...

"Frankly," Wesker began and clicked his tongue impatiently. "I have everything and you have nothing. A simple conclusion."

"That can change within the minute," Smidt objected.

"I think not."

What was Wesker doing there? Birkin tensed. Was he breathing strife? In his state? Smidt would rip him apart mercilessly.

"What do you have, doctor, that I cannot take away from you?" Smidt asked, arching a brow and flexing his muscles. He was rather scrawny of build, smaller than Wesker, but had the advantage of not being wounded so severely.

But when Wesker smirked, Birkin knew he had an ace up his sleeve. Wesker always had one or two prepared for the situation and it seemed that he was playing his cards out now. And Wesker was a damn good gambler.

"I know the way out," he said, a shark grin crawling on his lips. "And you don't."

* * *

** I hate to make POV changes during chapters, but certain events had to be seen from certain people's perspectives. Also, for now Tappert's way of dying is only a hypothesis made by Wesker, nothing more. Sadly, some of the journal entries lost their special formatting along the way. Screw FFnet for their limited word processing program. I hope you enjoyed this so far, we are nearing the last level of HORROR at a fast pace.**


	21. Chapter XXI

Chapter XXI

The ranks had been clearly established. Wesker was at the top, Smidt and him at the bottom. There was no in between or extra points or anything. Wesker made it obvious that they had nothing to say from now on and although his stern expression slowly gave way to the pain, the authority remained.

Wesker was leading, Smidt was second and Birkin brought up the rear. He didn't particularly like this order, but nobody seemed to care to ask him about his opinion. The darkness was biting his butt every time he forgot to hurry close enough to Smidt and it wasn't the first time he received threatening glares from the man in front of him. If the opportunity presented itself, he knew that Smidt wouldn't hesitate to strangle him to death. And the frightening thing about it was that Wesker would probably not intervene. The vibes between the two researchers weren't the best at the moment and Birkin could only guess that that was his fault; well, partly at least.

He couldn't shake off the thought of their earlier dispute and Wesker's words of knowing the way out kept resonating in his head.

_how can he know it? who told him? did he read it in that book?_

Tappert's journal had become an equivalent to the bible in the Hole that was Hell, and it was in Wesker's possession, making him the prophet who would lead the unbelievers into the light. Birkin shook his head. Jesus, what absurd theories was he coming up with? Wesker had read a hint in that book and there was no more to it. They were going to escape the abyss and that was all that counted.

_but what if he's playin? bluffin?_

Gambling was all about disconcerting other players and out of the three of them, Wesker not only had the best cards but also the most experience. A lump started to build in Birkin's throat. Good God, what if they were still straying around aimlessly? What if they weren't nearing the exit of the cave, but climbing into the maw of yet another monster?

"How long till we get out?" he asked uneasily.

Wesker didn't answer immediately, but eventually he said:

"As long as it takes."

This unsettled Birkin even more and earned a snort from Smidt, who threw his hands up in the air.

"You have no idea where we are!" he accused. "Liar, we're going to die if we follow you!"

Wesker turned around so abruptly that Smidt almost bumped into him. The flashlight gave his features that eerie shine of a storyteller about to begin another one of his ghastly tales. Before the other man could protest Wesker grabbed him by the hair and hurled his head against one of the stone walls.

"See for yourself, genius, and gouge your eyes out on it," he hissed and Birkin took a cautionary step back.

Smidt groaned loudly as he removed himself from the wall, clutching his bleeding face. He was about to get back at Wesker (and gouge _his_ eyes out) as Birkin interrupted the rising tension with an awe-inspiring "Oh my God…"

They were everywhere.

It occurred to him how absurd it was that he hadn't seen them before, especially when they were so evident if you _knew_ what you were looking for.

All across the walls and ceiling were small arrows, all pointing into the direction they were walking into. They weren't carved like others of Tappert's messages. The lines in the stone were barely insinuated and could be easily overlooked if not directly confronted with them like Smidt just experienced.

"There must be dozens," Birkin whispered, tracing a finger over one of the arrows. It almost disappeared and he quickly retraced the line with his nail – coming to a terrible realization. "Oh God… he scratched them into the walls…"

Wesker nodded, as if this was old news to him. Had Tappert written about this in his journal?

"One for every time he came down here and got out again," their self proclaimed leader explained.

"How often _has_ he been down here?" Birkin asked, startled.

"I don't know." Wesker shrugged. "Start counting if you like. The important part is not how often he has come down, but how often he managed to get back _out_."

"So you suggest we follow the trails of a madman?" Smidt interjected cynically. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, visibly unhappy about their newest finding. "Whoever takes the time to scribble arrows into a cave has lost a good part of their sanity. You really want to let his loss of sanity be our loss of life? That is foolish."

"That is the best we have," Wesker argued. "But if you want to go back and see if there are more oversized spiders or other monstrosities, I'm sure they will be delighted to lend you company."

This set an end to the discussion and the winner was definite. But Birkin couldn't help to think that the odds weren't as fair as Wesker made them sound. He risked a glance at the other man's leg, refraining a grimace at its state. The once white bandage was soaked crimson red and was coated in a layer of grime and upon closer inspection the muscles in Wesker's leg trembled continually. How long until they were going to refuse duty to their owner?

"How about we take a break?" he suggested then, the look on his comrades' faces clearly indicating what they thought of his idea.

"Has this place grown on you, Dr Birkin?"

"The exit could be just up ahead, Will. The faster we are, the sooner we're out."

"Or dead," he said and smirked. "The exit could be another mile away and we're idiots to think the passage is free. Besides, we could use a minute. My feet are killing me."

_and I don't even wanna start guessing about yours_, he added in his mind. The truth was that he didn't want to lose Wesker. If Wesker dropped out of the equation it was only Smidt and him and it didn't take a genius to figure out the result of that. Wesker was like a buffer, like a shield, and he had to be careful not to destroy his shield completely.

Wesker didn't agree immediately, but in the end he nodded his assent, much to Smidt's annoyance. The group settled down, Birkin and Wesker sitting some distance away from their third companion.

As Birkin crawled closer to the other researcher he found out that it was very hard to have a conversation in a place that was dominated by silence, without someone ten miles away hearing you.

"And you know what you're doing? You're sure?" The question came across with more of a desperate undertone than Birkin would have liked, but at least it seemed quiet enough not to reach Smidt.

Wesker simply nodded.

"You know the way out?"

Another nod.

"For _real?_"

At this his friend rolled his eyes, but his voice remained serious. "If you want to survive, William, you will be doing exactly what I tell you, exactly when I tell you to."

Birkin furrowed a brow. "What do I have to do when?"

"This remains to be seen. I just want to inform you. Your cooperation is crucial for your survival, no matter how absurd it may sound to you at the time."

He decided to drop the topic and just nodded. He wasn't going to tickle any information out of Wesker if Wesker did not willingly want to share it, and that seemed to be the case. He guessed that, in the end, he didn't really have much of a choice either way.

"So," he started again. "You've read all of this in Tappert's journal?"

"Some of it."

"And he describes the way to the exit, yes?"

"In a way."

"Jesus, Albert!" Birkin cried, throwing his arms up in frustration. "Give me a concrete answer!"

"You asked me if I knew where we're heading, I told you I do. How much more specific do you want it?"

"Can I just have the book for a moment?"

Wesker seemed to think this over, then shook his head and held out a hand. "No. Help me up. It's better if we move on now. You can read as many books as you want once we're back home."

He wanted to object, but Wesker's argumentation was just too convincing. Once they were on their feet again, the journey through the myriad of arrows continued. Tappert had marked the way at regular intervals, so it was easy to follow his trail without getting lost. Not that there were a lot of possibilities to get lost in a straight corridor.

Birkin just hoped that these arrows were indeed a sign for the exit and they did not misinterpret them again like they had done with 'take the right way'.

Suddenly the convoy stopped and Birkin perked his head to get a glimpse of what was ahead. He couldn't see anything out of order.

"What's wrong?"

"The atmosphere…" Wesker said, shining the torch up and down.

The atmosphere, was he joking? It had been the same all along. A horrid mixture of fear, heartracing and sweat. What the hell was he talking about?

"… it's getting wet again," Wesker continued. "Look at the walls, they're damp. We must be nearing water."

Birkin's spirits plummeted. Another underground lake? He was freezing to his bones as it was, he seriously didn't need a third swim.

Their march continued, but slower, all three of them on alert mode. The corridor in front of them soon widened into a sort of cavern, but the flashlight's range wasn't big enough to illuminate the other end, or even the ceiling.

At the entrance, to both sides of the corridor, another of Tappert's messages gave Birkin the creeps.

On one wall was:

'DARKNESS COMES'

and on the other

'FEAR THE GRIM REAPER'

"No way on earth do I take another step," Birkin announced resolutely. He was about to turn on his heels when Wesker grabbed him by the shoulder.

"If you want to leave Hell, you have to pass its keeper."

"Is this what the mad archeologist says?" Birkin asked as he lodged free of the other man's grip.

"No. This is what I say. And you'll _do_ what I _say_, remember?"

"You two feel free to kill yourselves," Smidt intervened. "I'm going to wait here, pick up the flashlight from your dead corpses and then search another way."

At that something flashed in Wesker's hand and Birkin's eyes widened as he recognized the pocket knife.

"I'm sorry, but this is a one-way road." Wesker said, the blade glinting dangerously. "Both of you _do_ what I _say_, end of story."

"What do you want to do with that?" Smidt asked mockingly. "Stab my eyes out?"

_- eyes, lungs, livers, kidneys –_ Birkin's mind raced.

"I could try," Wesker agreed and raised the knife. Smidt took two steps deeper into the cavern, backing away from the weapon even despite his cocky attitude. Birkin decided that this was one of the times where he was going to follow his friend's orders, if only to avoid a live-gutting.

Wesker forced Smidt deeper into the cavern. Their steps echoed off the walls, resounding in the hall.

"I could try to stab your eyes out," Wesker said. "Or see with my own eyes how fast your heart is beating after I cut it from its cage."

But he stopped advancing then, lowering the knife instead and Birkin thought that the ranks had been clarified again, that Smidt was put into his place, the whole threat remaining a threat and nothing more and they could go on with all their limbs attached.

But, as for so many instances that day, he was wrong again.

"I could kill you," Wesker said. His eyes transmitted the silent message of 'goodbye'. For everyone to understand he explained. "But I think someone else will do that for me."

That was the moment when Birkin's heart stopped beating, when time stopped running and the most abhorrent nightmares became reality.

Towering behind Smidt like a henchman at the execution was Hell's keeper. Birkin didn't know what it was and would have done anything to delete the image from his mind again. But it was burned in there forever.

It wasn't human, that was a given. Everything was the wrong way around. Its innards were outside, its bones shone in the torch's light like iron whips. It had no skin, but the pulsing winding masses that had to be its organs were covered in some mucky goo (perhaps the blood of its victims it bathed in from time to time).

When the Grim Reaper proclaimed its judgment in an abhorrent shriek, everyone broke into screams, but they were paralyzed to their spots as if the greek Medusa had just turned them all to stone.

The thing before them stretched and reached a height at least double the size as Smidt, displaying its henchman's tools; two razorlike sickles growing out of its arms, long tendons and muscles attaching them to its appendages.

The Grim Reaper commenced with its conviction. Faster than the eye could see it lifted Smidt off his feet. The man didn't even get the chance to scream. With lethal accuracy the thing impaled its blades into the human body.

Bones snapped.

Blood gushed.

Tissue ripped.

And Wesker turned the lights off.


	22. Chapter XXII

**In case you have creepy music, this is the time to turn it on. I wrote this chapter to the sound of "Fearful is no word for it", a track from the Resident Evil Orchestra CD. Good stuff. I'm sure this chapter reads better with horror music than without.**

* * *

Chapter XXII

The only thing that ever left Smidt's mouth was blood and foam, but no single scream. The Grim Reaper tore his lungs apart before he could gather enough air to form any sound. It picked the man apart limb by limb, and as soon as it had thrown the first arm into the air Wesker pushed the OFF switch on the torch.

_darkness comes darkness comes darkness comes_

He found Birkin's arm and gripped it tightly, hoping that the other man was going to heed his earlier words. They only had one chance and Smidt had already paid with his life for it.

With his heart in his throat and Birkin in tow Wesker began to run. Past the Reaper, past a gush of blood that sprang at him from one of Smidt's severed appendages. The pain in his leg was completely gone, overpowered by the mass of adrenaline that flooded his system.

_this has to work, god let it work, it has to WORK_

'nobody disturbs the Gods' peace without leaving a sacrifice'

Behind him Birkin tripped, but Wesker pulled him on. They had to be far enough now. He pressed the ON switch and the great cavern around them took on the form of demonic ghouls that could leap out from behind every shadow.

Wesker glanced over his shoulder. Behind them, like a king before his throne, stood the Grim Reaper holding its newest trophy high up into the air. The mangled body had no more resemblance with the man it had once belonged to. Innards hung down the Reaper's blades like morbid décor, one leg was solely attached through sinewy tissue. Smidt's head was not in its rightful spot anymore. If they didn't start hurrying they were going to end up exactly like that.

But there, up ahead! Wesker felt a pang of hope as he saw it. The hole within the hole, the tunnel that the Ndypaya tribe didn't know about. Because it belonged to the Gods and only Tappert had been so foolish to use. And he'd paid for it, every time. With blood. And flesh. And sanity. Because the Grim Reaper took its toll and nobody leaves Hell without paying for his sins first.

Behind them Death called, a high-pitched, deafening screech that hurt in Wesker's ears like a thousand tiny needles.

"_We're gonna DIE!"_ Birkin cried.

Behind them began the _trip-trap clip-clap _announcing the Reaper's advance. It was done with Smidt. Time to get to the cheaters.

The blades gleamed. No matter how fast they ran, their fate came closer. The tunnel ahead seemed like a safe haven, but the closer they got, the more Wesker's fear rose. _it's too big!_ They'd have to run bend over, but it was still too large. It'd fit the Reaper and that meant their demise.

"It's coming, Albert!"

The thing shrieked, proclaiming the next death. Birkin screamed in answer. Wesker lost the grip on the man's hand.

_-goodbye my friend but I don't want to die-_

"HELP ME!"

He couldn't, he just couldn't, it would be his own death! The Reaper raised its blades and Birkin cried and yelled and Wesker made the terrible mistake of looking back to witness the man's tribunal.

There was fresh blood on his friend's labcoat and crimson tears in his eyes. He had fallen and was now trying to get back up. Death towered above him. The blades shot down. Wesker looked away.

But Birkin didn't die. The Reaper hadn't torn him apart. Its next wail was not triumphant, but a deep tone of anger. He couldn't look back, too busy convincing his arms and legs to pump harder.

_Trip-trapping clip-clapping _the hunt continued.

Birkin suddenly appeared at his side, face smeared with blood, streaked with lines of tears.

Up ahead was the tunnel. Smidt's door to the Underworld. Birkin jumped in first, continuing his mad sprint bent over. Wesker didn't hesitate to follow him. Death was just a breath away.

"I can't see anything!" Birkin cried.

_because this is the end_, Wesker thought, _and there's nothing worth seeing beyond it_

He tossed the flashlight to the researcher, looking back one more time. The Reaper had entered the tunnel. The width of the passage slowed it down somewhat, but not enough to grant the two men any advantage. It lashed out with its razor claws. In the background he could hear the fictive voice of the Red Queen of Wonderland bark:

'Off with their heads!'

The tunnel around them tightened. Before him Birkin fell to his knees and continued to crawl at an animated pace, leaving blood tracks on the ground.

_trip-trap clip-clap!_

The blade came down on Wesker and he cried out, not in pain but shear panic. The Reaper had missed him, tearing a part of his labcoat off.

"GO! Faster!" he bellowed, feeling the skin of his palm crack under the sharp stones on the ground. His leg was on fire. The spear end that they hadn't dared pull out was now scraping against the floor and walls, driving Wesker out of his mind with pain.

The Reaper had discarded its false pray by now, taking the hunt up again.

"There's a fork!" Birkin gasped. "Shit! Left or right?!"

Left or right? Left or right? He didn't know! He couldn't remember! Tappert had never said anything about a fork!

Behind them the Grim Reaper suggested ending it right there and then, forget about the choices! Off with the heads, that's the right decision!

"The smaller one!" Wesker yelled.

Birkin went right.

_fucking hell, is this 'take the right way'?_

This branch of the tunnel was considerably smaller. Wesker's shoulders scraped the walls. Death tried to squeeze in behind them.

trip-_trap_ clip-_CLAP_

"More ways!" Birkin cried. "_Which way, Albert?!"_

"I don't know!"

Inch by inch, the Reaper came closer. It'd tear his legs off first, to make sure he couldn't keep on running.

"Just go!" he urged. It was so damn hot in here! He was sweating, trembling, gasping – and soon dying, if his friend didn't move. The Reaper squeezed its alien body through the much too narrow hole, screaming in rage and pain and resentment of not being able to reach its prey.

Wesker rammed into Birkin, pushing him onward and simultaneously avoiding one of the thing's claws. Instead of sinking into tender flesh, the organic blade scraped across the stone, leaving a deep mark behind.

_that could have been my body_

"MOVE DAMNIT!"

Out of three possibilities Birkin went straight. In retrospect, Wesker doubted they would have even fit into either of the other tunnels. Even in this one, they were dragging themselves on like worms, the ceiling too low to allow crawling.

What neither of them had seen in their frenzy was the last of Tappert's messages just above the entry to the passage. It was not meant for them anyway, but for the one who came after. And the Reaper was out of its mind with fury as it watched its prey escape. Tappert had written 'goodBYE' in a defiant jest to the Gods, knowing they could not follow him this way.

Wesker dared to peer over his shoulder one very last time. Death squirmed in the shadows, the light reflecting off its slimy surface and the bloody blades that never dulled, no matter how many executions they endured. He had never seen its eyes - if it even had any - but in that moment he thought that the Reaper stared back at him, full of hatred and determination and that it made a morbid promise to itself, hollering at him in a volume that nearly burst his ears.

_I'll get ya, cheater!_ Death called _I'll get ya because nobody escapes me!_

Ahead of him Birkin burst into a sort of larger cavity, but despair remained written on his features.

"More ways, Albert," his friend croaked, defeated. "Always more ways… it's a maze. There is no way out. Tappert hallucinated it. Sooner or later that thing's gonna get us good. Like Smidt. It threw his guts at me, that horrible monster, as if it wanted to mock me before killing me!"

As Wesker squeezed in beside him to get an own impression of the maze, he got an impression of Birkin's state first, and that was anything else but good. His labcoat was ripped and thick blood soaked the material. Even his face was smeared with life juice, sweat and tears creating curious patterns on the skin. One of his eyes was deep red.

Somewhere behind him the Reaper started its clip-clapping trip-trapping retreat, the tunnel too tight for its large size. Wesker was sure that it knew these caves like the back of its hand (if it had one). There was always more than one way and the Grim Reaper had not yet announced its defeat.

If they chose the wrong path now, chances were high that they'd crawl right into its bladed arms and then they could write their own goodbye messages onto the walls after the Reaper sliced off their extremities one by one.

He frantically scanned the small alcove for another of Tappert's hints, but the stone enclosure gave nothing away. No Xs, no right ways, no warnings. Wesker forced himself to recall the pages of the journal and leaf through them in his mind.

It hit him like a bomb.

"Don't move. Don't even breath," he told Birkin and fumbled for the lighter in his pocket.

The small flame it spew out did little to improve their vision, but that was not what Wesker wanted anyway. He held it into the opening of the left corridor first, then the right, then the middle. Bingo.

"That's the one."

"What? How can you be so sure?"

"Because the light at the end of the tunnel is carried by the breath of the sun. Look at the flame, Will."

It was dancing, bouncing back and forth on a light breeze, swirling and cracking.

"An air current. Wind. This has to be the way to the surface. It just _has_ to be."

They continued, so eager to reach the end that they didn't stay to consider the other two options. The way turned upward, soon transforming into a steep climb. Wesker was trembling with exhaustion, but the intensifying breeze boosted his spirits more than any amount of adrenaline could at this point.

They were getting out. God, it was such an irrational thought by now, believing that it was actually going to come true seemed so absurd when they were just one step away from Death.

Little stones slipped from under his hands and feet, making the climb even more taxing than it already was. His injured leg was beginning to deny its service, buckling under all the strain he put on it. Bile rose in the back of his throat and the world spinned with every step, but they were so close. They had to make it.

Birkin groaned in front of him, evidently fighting with his own injuries. His movements were short and clipped and the red stain on his back grew continuously larger.

"I think I can smell it," his friend whispered in between forced gasps. "Fresh air, Lord, it's so sweet."

Wesker couldn't smell anything apart from his own sweat, but he dearly hoped his friend's senses weren't betraying them.

"Oh God! Albert!" he wheezed. "The exit!"

Wesker's heart skipped a beat, but when it continued, it did so with renewed energy. He climbed after the other researcher hastily, soon seeing a patch of _something_ over Birkin's shoulder. The exit turned out to be a hole that barely fit them through, giving him a moment of claustrophobia as it spat them out of Hell and back onto Earth.

He didn't know where they were. Although it was deep night and the only light came from the stars in the sky, Wesker found himself blinded, having to blink away white spots until his vision cleared. They were surrounded by rocks and red earth as far as the eye could reach. He let himself collapse, hitting his head against the cold ground.

They didn't get out of Hell. This was no escape. It was just another form of dying.

In the middle of nowhere, they were going to bleed out like two stabbed pigs.

* * *

**If you think it's over, you're wrong.**


	23. Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIII

Although the wind could not be described as more than a harmless breeze it chilled Birkin to the bone. His clothes were still wet from the involuntary baths he'd taken and the material clang to his body like a second skin, making it impossible to escape the cold.

He shivered continuously, from time to time catching himself at teeth-clattering. And that in a fucking desert. The only warm spot was on his back, but that was anything else than comfortable. Back down in Hell Death had marked him for his sins, cutting a long gash square across his back. He couldn't see it of course, but he could feel the stickiness and the agonizing pain whenever he moved. The fabric of his shirt kept agglutinating to the blood, ripping open the wound at every opportunity.

"This sucks," he murmured, looking into Wesker's direction for some kind of reaction.

None came. Wesker lay sprawled on the ground and he'd been in that exact position ever since they fled the Hole. He hadn't said a single word since then, not for good and not for bad. Birkin hadn't moved out of his sitting position either, hugging his legs and sometimes rocking back and forth until his nerves shot enough pain signals up his brain to cancel the activity.

They'd realized pretty early on that getting out of the Hole wasn't equivalent to waking up from the nightmare. They might have escaped Tappert's Grim Reaper, but they'd made their plans without the wilderness of Kijuju. Nobody would be wandering the outskirts at night and, Birkin thought with a sad smile, probably nobody would during day either.

Perhaps Umbrella had started a rescue mission for them, but they were going to search in the caves, not above ground. If they had luck, someone would accidentally find them in two or three days, pass by and grimace at two rotten corpses in the sun. In two or three days, he guessed, they'd pick up a nice smell too, especially in the heat that had to follow once the sun rose.

"We're fucked," he concluded. "Whenever we try to escape a gruesome death, the one that awaits us next is even more horrible."

Wesker didn't respond, but that stopped bothering Birkin. Who cared, anyway? Wesker had been unconscious the last time he checked and if the man had any ounce of luck left, he had probably died without noticing it, too.

_great. he dies in his sleep and I'm left to bleed out or surrender to my thirst_

He suddenly found this incredibly unfair and if he hadn't been aching so much, he would have gone over to Wesker and kick him a good one in the ribs. After all they'd been through he actually had the nerve to conk out just like that, flee the pain and the exhaustion and the despair.

_son of a bitch_

Grunting, Birkin moved, stiff muscles protesting his newest idea. He uncurled, supporting himself with his arms and stretching out his legs, wriggling his toes. At least the Reaper hadn't got him in the spine. With those blades it would have been an easy job to cut through bone and nervous tissue. Best example: Smidt, who lost several extremities to the creature's bloodlust, head included.

Birkin had never quite liked their tour guide and even though he was glad for the sacrifice Smidt had made – their only chance – he did feel sorry for the man. Nobody deserved to be ripped to pieces while still conscious and fully aware of what was going on. He didn't want to imagine it in detail, but it had to be a horrible death.

He did it in one quick motion, certain that that was the method of least pain. It hurt _a lot_. He let his upper body lean back, lying himself out on the ground similar to Wesker. The only difference was that Wesker did not have a huge gash on his back. And Birkin, tired and stupid, had forgotten just how much dirt in a wound could hurt. He paid for his folly now.

Pushing himself on his side, he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, refusing the urge to brush the earth off with his hand.

"Fucking dumbass…"

The flames licking his back died down to an energetic throb after what seemed like an eternity, when the actual time passed could not have been more than a few minutes. Birkin exhaled, for the first time daring to relax his muscles. And as the tension left him, he was conquered by the same weariness Wesker must have succumbed to. It was like a warm, heavy blanket spread over his body, numbing his legs and arms until the tips of his fingers tickled, and his mind became clouded.

_Fuck, no._

Blinking, Birkin shook it off. No sleeping. Sleeping meant dying and he'd left Hell just too recently to go back so quickly. He tried to focus his attention on something. There wasn't much beside red earth. He was lying with his back to Wesker and didn't even think about turning around. Taking a handful of dirt, he let it slip through his fingers, trying to find something interesting about the particles of dust to keep him from dozing off. But he yawned and his eyes were heavy and his head would drop ever so often, demanding just that minute of rest it so direly needed. And every time he would flinch out of his microsleeps, not always certain if he was fully awake again or had simply jumped into another half-dream.

But then something caught his eye and it was worthy enough for Birkin to do what he'd silently promised himself never to do again: he sat up.

The flashlight lay beside him and he turned the switch to ON. All along, he'd been facing the hole. The hole that was their false escape from a death that would get them no matter whether they were underground or above it.

It suddenly had an air of mystery to it, an unexplainable allure. He pointed the torch at it.

Perhaps it was just a trick his overfatigued eyes played on him, but something had _moved_ in there. Perhaps only the wind stirring some dirt. His heart raced. But perhaps not.

Birkin craned his neck to his friend. Wesker had no opinion on the newest happenings. Man, he didn't know what he was missing here.

The pain in his back forgotten he got on all fours and started crawling, the torch bouncing in his hand. He'd definitely seen something down there.

A thought hit him and he almost yelped in frustration. What if their rescue was there, searching for survivors and missing the narrow tunnel leading to the surface? Birkin reached the edge of the hole and peered inside.

Were those steps?

His eyes stung and he gulped. Why the fuck didn't Wesker move? He couldn't fell such an important decision alone.

Shining the flashlight into the hole, Birkin held his breath, perking his ears.

_please let them be steps_

Were they? Weren't they? God, he couldn't tell! He inched in closer, the muscles in his back flaring up in warning that they were going to rip if he didn't stop in his stupidity. Birkin didn't mind. They _were_ steps.

"H-hello?" he whispered. The rescuers were as silent as Wesker.

_of course they are. they don't hear you_

He repeated the question again, this time louder. The steps seemed to cease. Were they stopping to listen? If this was their only chance, he couldn't forfeit it.

"_Hello! We're up here! We need help!"_

There was a little bit more silence and Birkin bent deeper over the opening, straining to hear something. There! Steps started again! And they came closer!

_oh lord!_

"Wake up, Albert! It's all over!"

He looked into the hole expectantly, new hope setting reserves of adrenaline free he didn't even know he possessed. A grin settled on his burst lips and he laughed hoarsely at himself. God, the excitement would kill him, how ironic was that?

The step-sounds became ever louder. He couldn't tell how many there were, the resounding echo made it impossible to guess. He waved the torch and called,

"Up here! We're here!"

Now he was sure: more than one pair of feet! Umbrella must have sent their USF! He turned to Wesker, almost crying with relief.

"Albert!"

But when he turned back to the hole and looked into its gaping maw, the thrill of anticipation left Birkin in an instant.

They weren't steps. He knew that sound. He knew what that was.

The tears came as if someone had turned a valve, but they had turned from tears of joy to such of fear. He opened his mouth to cry, but it was too late to scream.

clip-clap-TRIP-_TRAP_

and the Reaper's blades burst out of the pit, the inhuman screech of judgment accompanying them. Birkin dropped the flashlight. The claws caught in his back and there was an agonizing jerk, pulling him over the edge.

He was yelling at the top of his lungs now, his eyes tightly closed to shield himself from the darkness surrounding him. He could feel the Reaper's slimy body against his own, the external heart that beat with the exhilaration of finally having caught up with its victim.

They were back in the Hole. Birkin struggled against sinewy muscles and dug his hand into what had to be unprotected innards. The Reaper drew an almost affectionate gash over his back. He was out of his mind with panic. Blackness enclosed them. The flashlight had broken, had abandoned him in his most dire moment.

"HELP!" he heard himself roar in a voice that was so high-pitched, it was impossible to belong to him.

Death hacked one of its blades into the crook of his left arm-

_it's gonna RIP me_

- he cut his fingers as he brushed them over what had to be its peaked teeth. More screams, more agony. The Reaper had his leg and his other arm. He flexed his muscles until he thought that the tissue cracked, lashing out at a clearly sovereign enemy.

_rip rip rip rip rip_

His bones dreaded to give. He couldn't move his head anymore. The Reaper enjoyed it. There was pressure on his chest and he stared into its eyes, pleading, begging, crying.

But Death had no mercy.

_YOU DESERVE IT YOU SICK FREAK THIS IS THE END_

-

He reared up, eyes wide, hyperventilating, screaming. He was blind and on fire and the Reaper's many claws pushed and pulled at him, tearing at arms and choking his throat and cutting his flesh.

"For god's sake, someone restrain him!"

"Give him another sedative and strap him down!"

"Jesus, he's berserk, he won't hold still!"

The flashlight, miraculously working again, was right before his eyes, blinding him. He groaned, the overdose of information making him sick.

"Alright, I got him. He's calming down."

He wasn't calming. He was falling. They let him fall back into the Reaper's nest and it would feast on him every time he closed his eyes.

"no… please no…"

Something warm on his forehead. He was incredibly nauseous. He didn't want to go back. Not again.

"It's ok…shhh… you're safe. We found you and your friend. Everything will be alright..."

But the Reaper waited patiently in a place that was never safe, that he would never be able to escape. Luckily, Birkin didn't dream this time.

* * *

**So, a very last demonstration that cheating Death once does not mean having cheated it forever. One more epilogue chapter is going to follow and this one should not be underestimated. Out of all chapters so far, it probably holds the most significance in terms of plot development for the RE series. I'll see you soon. ;)**


	24. Epilogue

Epilogue

Five days had passed and the doctors assured him he would make a full recovery. As soon as they had been transportable Spencer had moved them back to America, where they were to regain their powers in one of Umbrella's private institutions.

Wesker didn't mind that. He didn't know a lot about medical service down in Africa, but if it was at all similar to the transportation service he was very glad that Spencer didn't leave them to try that out too.

He'd been coherent enough to hand in a short report on the third day and heard that Birkin had done the same. What he'd also heard about was his friend's behaviour during their rescue.

Umbrella had sent several teams on the lookout, some above ground, others searching for them through alleged connections of old mining tracts with the cave system. The initial route remained inaccessible, the tunnel collapse too heavy to clear.

He hadn't picked up a lot on the actual rescue. Soon after their climb out of the Hole his injuries had taken their final toll on him; blood loss, as his doctors had explained later on. Birkin had fallen unconscious too at some point, but woke up in a frenzy during transportation. Although he hadn't talked to the other man yet, Wesker could well imagine what had driven his friend out of his nightmares.

Personally he didn't dream yet. The fatigue was still too big, his body using every minute for recovery. His mind would certainly make up for lost time later, processing the horror during his sleep. Wesker did not look forward to it.

Suddenly the door to his room was thrown open and a man in a hospital gown barged in, clinging to a drip stand with one hand and brandishing a stack of papers with the other. William Birkin looked as lively as ever, his face deeply flushed and his expression mirroring a rage he usually took on when one of his assistants screwed up an experiment.

"You look well," Wesker said from his position, propping himself up on the pillows. But by the looks of it, Birkin hadn't come in for just a friendly visit and although he could guess why the man was so upset, he restrained himself from saying anything.

"Cut the crap, Albert," Birkin sneered and slapped the documents into his lap. "What the _hell_ is this?!"

Wesker took the offered papers, skimming through them briefly. He recognized the handwriting instantly. It was his own, after all.

"That's my report on the case." He pointed to the first line. "It says so right there, see?"

Birkin boiled and Wesker wouldn't have been surprised if the i.v. stand bended beneath his iron grip on it.

"Don't take me for an idiot…"

"Then define your problem."

"_This_," Birkin pointed at the report, "is my fucking problem and you damn well know why!"

Wesker took another thoughtful glance at the papers, arranged them neatly and handed them back to the other man.

"If you have a problem with my retelling of events, William, I'm sorry. That is why they wanted us both to recap the situation. Different points of view. And now you're better returning to your room. I heard Dr Marcus has been diligent in our absence. There is a lot to catch up on."

The papers littered the floor a second later.

"Are you shitting me, Albert? After everything that happened down there you have the _nerve_ to stab me in the back like this?"

"I am not doing anything to you. You're about to ruin your career all by yourself, but you're hardly noticing that, are you?"

Birkin was silent and Wesker used the moment to elaborate.

"Who do you think they will believe in the end, Will? You, who wrote so fantastically about alien-sized spiders, horrid man-shaped demons and a thing that has blades as its arms and its hide turned inside out?

"Or will they rather believe that in the chaos following the collapse serious injuries have been sustained and the remaining survivors riled up against each other in shear panic and terror. That your spider has been nothing more than a brute's hand wanting to gouge your eyes out, that your giant has been one of the workers who attacked us in a belief that we were ghouls sprung to life from his overstretched imagination?

"You suffered multiple hard hits to the head and have been diagnosed with a serious concussion, William. Hallucinations are not unusual, especially not in a place like that."

"Bull-_shit_!" Birkin yelled. "You KNOW what happened down there, you've been there and saw it with your own, damn eyes!"

"There is no evidence."

Birkin lifted his shirt, revealing a bandaged upper body. He clicked his tongue in frustration and pointed to Wesker's leg. "Isn't this enough of an evidence?"

Wesker sighed. He didn't like playing so radically against his friend, but there was no way around it. "While we were climbing towards the exit your hold slipped. You fell, and a sharp rock tore your back open, as for-"

"- it was the _claw_ of that _monster_ and you _know_ it, because it ripped Smidt apart and nearly gutted both of us!"

"As for me," he continued calmly. "It was an unfortunate incident with one of the surviving workers and a mining tool of his."

"It was the _Devil!_"

Wesker snarled. "For God's sake, William! Listen to yourself! Go to Spencer like that next week and he'll throw you out of the program before you're even halfway through the story!"

"He won't, because it's the _truth_ and-"

"Spencer doesn't _care_ about the truth. He cares about results, which we did not bring. Be clever and play it out as I tell you to. The new Progenitor plants they found down in Africa are consecutively dying. The change in atmosphere, the different oxygen, what do I know… it's killing them. Spencer has turned his eye back to America, where Marcus excels with T. We fucked up down there, Will, and the best thing we can do now is shut our mouths and play along with what comes. Don't complicate matters. You have a concussion and I left more blood in Africa than I carried back to the US. We're the only survivors of that massacre, so Spencer's opinion is built upon our statements. If we argue, the foundation will topple over and fall on _us_."

Birkin shook his head. "I'm not agreeing with this. You know what's down there. You've seen what happened. Hell, we've not imagined that. Tappert wrote about it in his journal years before we went there!"

Wesker smirked. "Tappert's journal is purely hypothetical. The only book retrieved from the Hole is the other journal, and the only thing forensics managed to read out of that one were records about botany and geology. Continue to talk about Tappert's death notes and Spencer will think you've lost your mind in that cave."

"You…" Birkin's lips turned into a tight little line and he grit his teeth as he spoke next. "You son of a bitch left it down there, the journal. Why did you leave the only piece of evidence _down there_?"

"Because Progenitor is not what we have to focus on at the moment, William. T is waiting for us and it brings results that will satisfy Spencer far faster than Progenitor ever could."

"Fuck Spencer! You've seen what Progenitor did with those creatures, Albert! We've never gotten so far with T, never produced such breathtaking results. If Spencer really wants bioweaponry, the deadliest army is waiting for him to issue commands."

"William, I want to tell you one more time," Wesker said, slowly, as if every word that left his lips had a significance for the future duration of their lives. "Spencer does not know about the Hole. You had a concussion. We will support Dr Marcus in his experiments with T and not talk about Africa again. Do you understand this?"

"No." Birkin crossed his arms. "You can't simply let such a scientific discovery go unnoticed."

"I don't."

"Then what do you call this?"

"The trump card. Which should never be played until the right moment. And that is not now."

_

* * *

  
Who passes the Keeper of the Gate enters the playground of Gods and becomes a God himself.  
__- John Tappert_

* * *

**THE END**

* * *

**So, it's done. With the epilogue up, this story makes more sense in terms of plot development. The Hole lays the groundstone for Uroboros, even though Wesker doesn't know it yet. As for Tappert's last quote, take it as hint for Wesker's RE5 God-complex, hehe. **

**I had a lot of fun writing this story, and from the initial 8 or so chapters that were planned it really developed! I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did and I want to thank you so very much for your continued support throughout - this is what really kept me going.**

**Although most of you already figured it out along the way, here is the solution to the different creatures Wesker and Birkin encountered during their trip.**  
**Cheshire Cat / Facehugger - Bui Kichwa**  
**Devil / Giant - Giant Majini**  
**Grim Reaper / Death - Reaper**

**I'll be taking a break from full horror stories for the near future, I feel my repertory is a bit exhausted. I already have a pre-Mansion STARS action story in mind, until then I encourage you to read E re nata, an AU pre-mansion outbreak involving Albert Wesker and Annette Birkin. It's not so much psycho-horror as this one, but more survival-horror style that makes us all love Resident Evil. Here is the summary:**

e re nata  
as circumstances dictate  
_AU. On Spencer's behalf Albert Wesker and Annette Birkin embark on a diplomatic trip to Rockfort Island… but nobody speaks ill of the Ashford family name and simply gets away with it. Warning: Extreme violence, torture and gore_.

**Hopefully seeing you soon!**

**Cheers,**  
**Chaed**


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